You're a ghost town (and maybe I'm a ghost)
by The Bella Cat
Summary: Safe up in the mountains with Frank following a bloody showdown in Hell's Kitchen, Karen wonders just how much more complicated things between them can get. She's about to find out.
1. You're a ghost town

**This is my first attempt at writing a Kastle fic. I think, pretty much like everyone in the fandom, my reaction to Karen Page and Frank Castle has been "how the fuck did I get here?" and "how does this work?". I don't know the answers to either of these questions but I'm hoping to figure it out and that this fic can serve as a starting point.**

 **I also really wanted to explore what would happen if Karen ever told Frank about Wesley and how such a situation might come to be. I hope you enjoy it. I'm probably more nervous posting this fic than I have been for any of my others, so be kind.**

 **Title is taken from Black Lab's "Something you don't know" which is also weirdly appropriate for what goes on in this fic.**

* * *

He calls her ma'am.

She doesn't know why that complicates things but it does.

He's used her as bait, he's shot at her - well not _at_ her, but _near_ her at the very least - and he's broken her heart in ways she doesn't fully understand and maybe never will.

But he calls her ma'am. And somehow that makes things both less and more terrifying all at the same time.

And he's doing it now. Standing next to the window in a dark log cabin at the end of the world, a pump-action shotgun in one hand and a blanket in the other, a dog at his feet. The look on his face is equally incongruous as he seems to be trying to figure out whether to worry about what's going on here inside or there outside.

Apparently he chooses the former.

"Ma'am, you're freezing," he's saying it, has been for a while now, so she guesses it must be true, but all she can really process is that she's in the middle of nowhere with The Punisher, that there's an army of Russian mob on their tails, that she's wet, scratched and bruised and minutes ago he was happily blowing men to bits. And now he's calling her ma'am.

One of these things does not fit in with the rest. Except it kinda does.

He's trying to shove the blanket towards her but that doesn't seem particularly important. In her head, blankets and warmth are somewhere near the bottom of the list of Things Karen Page Finds Significant Right Now. Nearer the top are two things. In second place is the "Russian mafia just tried to murder me" and squeezing into first place just above that is "Holy Shit, Frank Castle is still alive".

Not that she thought he wouldn't be. She doesn't think men like Frank Castle just die and no one notices. Maybe _he_ does. In fact she's pretty damn certain he thinks no one would mourn his passing. He'd be wrong, of course, and that's a whole other complication she's not ready to explore just yet.

So no, for whatever reason, pragmatic or otherwise, she hadn't let her mind wander too far down the road of Places Frank Castle Could Be That Are Not The Bottom Of The Atlantic but she couldn't deny that things have been quiet around town. No dissected criminals, no Yakuza taken down in a hail of bullets, no bodies floating in the Hudson. Frank Castle was just gone. Disappeared like smoke, a fading bruise on the flesh of Hell's Kitchen. Except he wasn't. Not to her at least.

"Ma'am," insistent this time. "Ma'am please. Your clothes."

Yes, yes her clothes. It's slowly starting to sink in. The warehouse. The woman. The freezing water. Matt. _Oh God Matt_.

The last time she saw him he was taking down drove after drove of Russians, of Yakuza, of God knows what. Matt in his devil costume, his "little boy pajamas" as Frank snidely called them on their way up here. Matt, the blind man who sees better than she ever did. Matt, the man she once thought she could love.

Sometimes she thinks there is no one as blind as she was.

He'll be okay though. He has to be. Besides he came with back up - the old man with a stick and the woman, the one she saw in his bed less than a week after he'd smudged her lipstick while he kissed her on the steps outside her apartment. Way back when she'd thought he was the perfect gentleman. Before Frank. Before Nelson and Murdock shut its doors. Before Daredevil.

 _Enough. Enough now._ She shakes her head. She doesn't have the strength to think about that. Not now. Maybe later when all this is over and she's back in her apartment and warm and safe, even though "warm" and "safe" are two things she doubts she'll ever feel again.

Not after tonight. Not after what happened.

It had been a small thing. Tiny. A quick anonymous call that came in just as Karen was getting ready to leave work. A nervous sounding woman claimed she had information on Fisk. Important information that he still owned a warehouse on the corner of 11th and 44th. That it hadn't looked all that abandoned the last time she saw it while she was walking her dog.

The truth was it was probably nothing. Karen knew Fisk's assets were largely depleted what with him literally buying every guard at the prison, not to mention the cash he'd poured into keeping his girlfriend out of the country and in the manner to which she became accustomed. The man didn't exactly have much anymore. But that's not to say it would be a leap for him to have retained some property, a few assets. Karen has no doubt that Fisk has a contingency plan for when he gets out. And really, it's only a matter of time.

Either way, it wasn't something she was too concerned about checking out. Abandoned warehouses which weren't so abandoned when runaways and junkies were looking for an escape from the New York winter hardly features high on the list of Things Karen Page Finds Suspicious.

(Karen knows that maybe she should stop thinking about her life in terms of lists but lately the relative simplicity of being able to take something huge and grind it down to a few trivial words and then catalogue it as relatively unimportant appeals to her just a little too much to give up.)

She made a note of it though. _Sure yes, madam, it's something to keep in mind_. Something maybe, but only if it could connect to something else. The remnants of the Fisk empire were everywhere in Hell's Kitchen. One more was barely a blip on the radar.

And then she got into her car with every intention of driving straight home and falling into her bed and sleeping the whole weekend away without seeing a soul.

(Karen also knows that this self enforced isolation following Frank's disappearance and what she likes to think of as Matt's Big Reveal aka Prince of Lies aka Paradise Lost, is probably unhealthy. She works, she sleeps, she sometimes sees Foggy when they both have a night off. It's more existence than living really. But it's safer this way. No one to make her cry or see her crying. No one to break her heart and then break it again. No one.)

Her plan, if simple, seemed foolproof. But she forgot that old adage, the one she lived by for most of her life. _If you want God to laugh, tell him your plans._

Eleventh and 44th was on her way home because of course it was, because Hell's Kitchen might have more crime than the entire states of Vermont and Maine combined but it still doesn't mean it's more than a few blocks in size and that you don't drive through the whole damn thing multiple times a day. Because Karen Page apparently doesn't need much of a reason to get caught up on the wrong side of a fight.

So she drove past and from the outside it looked like any other warehouse in the kitchen. Dark, seedy, miserable, a rusted, broken chain link fence glinting in the feeble moonlight. Barely worth a second look. She wasn't surprised. It's likely all Fisk's leftover properties are falling into disrepair - might even be better if he sold while he could still get something for them. And she was going to leave it at that. Honest to God, she was. There was nothing suspicious. No lights, no movement. No Yakuza. Some abandoned crates outside and a junkyard dog sitting under a single halogen light in a pitiful attempt to stay warm in New York's winter.

Frank would have gone in for that alone. Hell, Frank would have probably shot up the entire Kitchen for leaving one dog in the snow. But she's not Frank and she's not stupid and while she too has an affinity for scared broken things that look tough on the outside, she wasn't about to go poking an unknown pitbull all by herself and invite it back to her place.

Funny how things work out sometimes.

Funny indeed.

Because Karen Page is nothing if not assiduously aware of the irony that seems to to court her every step before it comes to dump all its toys on her doorstep and invite her out for a night on the town. And apparently tonight was date night.

She rounded the corner of 11th with every intention in the world of just following the road home. _Every_ intention. But she knows that if the road to hell is paved with good intentions then the streets of Hell's Kitchen are probably paved with bad ones, and occasionally those lead you to places you don't want to go. Not always, but often enough. Sometimes she's not sure of the difference anymore.

But one thing she is sure about, something she keeps telling herself, is that despite everything she's Karen Page, she's not a monster.

So when she saw the woman standing in the snow, just inside the fence, wearing nothing but a bloodied slip and one shoe, she couldn't just leave her there.

She _wouldn't_.

So she stopped. And she called. And it was like the woman didn't even hear her. And then she got out of the car, hugged herself against the chill of the wind, thanked her mother for telling her to wear boots in winter and not the heels she's always preferred, and made her way over the snowed-in sidewalk. She told herself nothing was going to happen. Short of maybe a quick trip to the hospital or the police station, nothing was going to happen.

Until it did.

Until the world fell apart and Karen didn't know how to put it back together again.

Now, standing here with Frank as he awkwardly drapes the musty smelling blanket over her shoulders, as she notices that despite his bravado his hands are shaking and his pupils black and blown, she wonders how she could have been so stupid. It's Hell's Kitchen. It's Wilson Fisk. It's fucking women standing around in the snow as bait. People say she's astute but sometimes she thinks that's not a descriptor she's ever really earned.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," he's back at the window and she can just make out his profile in the moonlight. He's not looking at her and, even though she knows he's keeping watch in case they were followed, she wonders if there's some other reason.

"Hard on myself?" she asks, there's an edge to her voice, a sudden flare of rage which she tries to suppress. She's still wishing she could beat this situation into some kind of submission, a shape that makes sense to her that she can work with. Put it on a list where she can diminish its importance and tell herself there are bigger things she needs to be worried about. But she can't. It won't fit and there is no list yet for Big Fucked Up Things That Karen Page Gets Involved In Which Hurt The People She Loves.

Except there kinda is.

"I can see you're standing there wondering what you coulda done different. Whether you brought this down on yourself? If everything is your fault," Frank pumps the shotgun, tugs at the flimsy curtain a little. "It isn't and you'll go mad thinking about that. Stop it."

"And you would know," she snaps suddenly. "The man who runs around trashing the city, blowing up people left, right and centre. The man who calls himself The Punisher because that's what he does. He punishes. He hurts. _You_ would know."

He flinches. She can see it even in the dimly lit cabin. Can see the way he stifles the instinct to recoil and then looks away as if she's slapped him and just might do it again.

"Yes," he says simply, softly. "Yes, I would know."

There's no edge in his voice, no inflection. He doesn't lean on any of the words. This isn't about winning or scoring points. It just is.

And even though she doesn't want to believe him, even though she's mad as hell, if not at him, then with the whole fucking situation - with Matt, with Elektra, with the whole fucking world - she does. He _would_ know. He probably doesn't know anything else. Not anymore.

Maybe it's just been so long that she's forgotten, that she's struggling to see Frank Castle inside the Punisher. The lonely boy who's just looking for someone - somewhere - to go home to.

He's in pain. He has to be. He always is.

She decides then that she won't add to it. Not like this. Yes, he kills people. Yes, she admits he should be in jail and should not be out walking the , he needs help even if he doesn't think he does. But he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve someone else's rage, someone else's hate, someone else's guilt.

"Sorry," she says.

"Ma'am?" he's looking at her now and in the pale moonlight he seems younger, smoother.

"Sorry," she says again. "I shouldn't have…"

She trails off unsure where to take this, if anywhere. And he's still watching her in that Frank Castle way, which is 50% murderous rage and 50% lost puppy … and she doesn't know what to do with either one of them.

"It's alright," he tells her and he sounds so awkward she has to fight to keep a laugh bubbling up from her belly. It's not that it's funny. It isn't. It's probably one of the most unfunny situations she's ever been in, topped only by waking up next to her dead co-worker and being kidnapped by Wilson Fisk's lackey. And then only just. But she's come to know what hysteria feels like and she's verging on that edge where if she doesn't laugh, she'll cry.

She wonders if he has a preference.

But he's turned back to the window, seemingly relieved to have this aspect of the conversation over and she can see it's snowing again hard and heavy, fat flakes coursing through the night sky, Wind howling through the trees. Rabbit in a snowstorm. She shakes the thought away, forces herself to focus.

"Do you think they've followed us up here? That they made it through the pass?" she asks, pulling the blanket tighter around her. That cold he told her she was feeling has come home to roost now and she shivers violently as she approaches him.

He shrugs.

"Haven't seen anything. Road up here was pretty bad."

He's right. She remembers because only minutes ago she was driving it. Driving his goddamned truck while he hung out of the sunroof using a fucking kalashnikov to blow the world to hell and gone. Driving like their lives depended on it up the windy pass into the woods while he shrieked at her to go faster, to stop bouncing, to watch out that the fucking dog riding shotgun didn't fall off the fucking seat.

Yes, they have the dog. He wouldn't leave it behind.

He's Frank Castle. He doesn't leave things behind.

He didn't leave her. Even though all of it - the phone call, the warehouse, the woman standing half-naked in the snow - was a trap. Of course it was a trap. She wonders how she didn't see that.

She's actually not too certain about the order of events that followed her getting out of the car. She's pretty sure she called out again, even more sure that she pulled out her phone and punched 911 into the keypad. It's after that things get a little fuzzy. She has no real recollection of the woman's face but she does remember screaming. Screaming so loud she'd jammed her hands over her ears to stop it, screaming like nothing she's ever heard or wants to again. High pitched but somehow also guttural and blood curdling. And she would have done anything - _anything_ \- to make it stop. And then suddenly it did and the next thing she remembers is waking up tied to a chair, her coat gone and bucket after bucket of freezing water being thrown in her face, drenching her hair and clothes and running down her legs to form icy puddles in her boots.

She lost time after that again. She thinks there were at least ten men, thick Russian accents on all of them. Someone screaming at her about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, someone else shouting about The Punisher. A blow to the head, another to the ribs, a boot to her stomach. Not hard enough to break anything but hard enough to hurt. To bruise.

More shouting. But not at her. And it was then that she realised she was bait. That this had nothing really to do with Karen Page, goody two-shoes legal secretary-turned-reporter, nothing really to do with naked women in the snow and abandoned warehouses. This was a trap for her and in turn a trap for the men closest to her. Lure her in and watch them give themselves up and swoop in to save her. Whoever said chivalry is dead?

And the plan worked. Matt, the old man with the stick and the woman she only knows as Elektra all showed up, along with a few dozen Yakuza and some asshole with a _kyoketsu-shoge_ \- yes Karen has had to become intimately acquainted with Japanese weaponry in the last little while - and all hell broke loose.

Once again, the details are fuzzy, not least of which was where this unholy Yakuza, Russian mob alliance came from. There was a lot of noise. A lot. Swords, chains, fists. And then gunfire. That's when she knew Frank had arrived - when people started being mowed down with the kind of military efficiency only he possesses. It was also when Matt - no, _Daredevil_ \- started freaking out, shouting at Frank to go. To just get her and go. Leave the mess to him, stop the killing. It was ridiculous but it worked. She's not sure why. One second men were being blown to smithereens in front of her face, gunfire echoing in her ears and the smell of kerosene in the air, and the next Frank was untying her, using a knife and a "sorry ma'am" to slice through the cable ties at her ankles and the ropes at her wrists. And then he was hauling her up and her ribs felt like they were about to send their jagged pieces of bone and cartilage out through her chest, her stomach like it was going to vomit up everything she'd eaten in the past year and maybe everything she planned to eat in the next.

They ran. The thing she remembers most was the squelch of her boots and the wet socks within them echoing across the floor. How uncomfortable it was, how she thought she was going to fall and knew she wouldn't be able to get up again. She asked about Matt once and Frank ignored her, half carrying, half dragging her until she pushed him away and swore she was fine and she could run on her own.

And she did. Up winding staircases and through dimly lit corridors, Frank steamrolling over anyone and anything in their path, until eventually they burst out into the snow and the night air and Karen made it her business not to think how far underground they had been. Or how they'd managed to find her.

They weren't alone though. Yakuza and Russian mob alike surged out one of the side doors, wielding guns and swords and calling for blood. They were outnumbered, outgunned, out _everythinged_ and an army between them and her car.

She was ready to give up then. She distinctly remembers the feeling. She was freezing and her legs ached, ears still ringing from the earlier blow and her bruised ribs making it difficult to breathe. She may have been ready to just let them take her. Kill her. She could be collateral damage and Fisk could have this godforsaken city of his and shove it up his ass. She could forget Matt and spare a fond thought for Foggy. Throw Wesley into his rightful place on her list of Things That Don't Matter To Karen Page Anymore. She could do it. She really could.

"Frank," she whispered, taking his hand, folding her fingers into his, nothing more than a second to feel his warmth and strength. "Frank."

There was a moment - and she thinks he will deny it for the rest of his life - when his eyes met hers and she knew he also considered giving in. That something akin to peace crossed his face. That he actually looked an approximation of "happy", maybe the closest Frank Castle could ever get. They could go down together, it wouldn't have been so bad. Worse ways to go than with The Punisher at your side.

And then something changed. She's not sure what it was, but it felt like he really _saw_ her, he _understood_ and everything within him rebelled against giving up.

"You drive," he said and she blinked as he shoved his keys at her. "My truck's on 44th. Black SUV."

She remembers she asked him where he was going, why he couldn't come with her but he was already running, rushing headlong into the crowd of Russian mob, headlong towards his death. She called his name, screamed it and he shouted back to get the truck and swing by the northeast corner of the building. To go. _Go now._

 _Ma'am_.

She went. Shivering and shaking and slipping on the snowy ground, bruised ribs and pounding head screaming their objections. But she went. Because Frank told her to and he hadn't let her down yet and she'd like to repay the favour even though she's not sure he could survive the situation he'd just thrown himself into. Even though she's not sure why he did in the first place.

And then she was behind the wheel, tyres screeching as she hit the gas and flew around the corner. He said to meet him, he was going to be there, because he always did what he said and why the hell should this be different. He doesn't lie. He's not going to start now. She realises later that she was praying, that she was making deals with Matt's God for Frank and she has no doubt that that is something Frank would have strong objections to, that he'd find it offensive and upsetting and tell her she was wasting her time and breath. But fuck him. Fuck Frank Castle and his "code", his honour. Fuck it all. She was praying and who the hell can say but maybe that's why they're both here and alive, maybe Matt has a point and their lives are cosmically controlled. Maybe, but who the fuck cares anyway.

She doesn't now and she didn't then.

What she did care about was where the hell Frank was, because, while the building blocked her view of any of the Yakuza or Russians or whatever the hell was chasing them, Frank wasn't there either. And he said he would be. He _said_.

His word is his bond. Or so she likes to think.

So she waited. And she waited. And she waited some more. And looking back she's sure it was only seconds that she actually sat there, staring at the falling snow and the weak halogen lamps, checking the mirrors to see no one was following her, that somehow she had escaped unscathed and the hell army on the inside of the chain link fence had lost any interest in her.

Not that they really had any to start off with. She was just bait after all.

So maybe it was seconds but it seemed like decades. And she was just about ready to give up, ready to drive herself right down to the police department and tell Mahoney to get his ass up here and sort everything the fuck out - secret identities be damned - when she spotted Frank rounding the corner of the building, bursting out from the shadows like a shadow himself, black and amorphous and leaving blood in the white snow. And he was running, running fast like his life depended on it - which at that moment it did - and shooting recklessly over one shoulder.

And that's when she saw it. The other black amorphous shadow running at his side, a thin line of chain connecting them.

It was the dog. He went back to get the fucking dog. Risked his fucking life and stood up to a small army so a dog wouldn't need to spend another night in the snow. Frank Castle might be the toughest, meanest son of a bitch she's ever met in her life, but he's also the sappiest sap on the planet. And she loves him and hates him for both of those things.

She flung the car door open as he skidded through one of the holes in the fence, the blue pitbull close on his heels and, from what she could see, having the time of its life.

"You went back for the dog?" she asked as he shoved it into the seat next to her and even though she tried to inject some annoyance and incredulity into her voice, she couldn't. This is Frank Castle. And he went back for the dog. Because he's Frank Castle and Frank Castle goes back for dogs.

"Drive!" was all he said and she did, a happy as fuck pitbull panting on the seat next to her, fogging up the windows, and Frank shouting directions at her as he proceeded to start a small war from the sunroof.

She doesn't remember all that much more and she'd like to keep it that way. The mob chased them. The Yakuza chased them. She drove, Frank shot. The dog slobbered on the seats. Just another day in Hell's Kitchen.

But they're not in Hell's Kitchen now. They'd lost their tail as far as they knew and now she's standing here with Frank Castle in a freezing, rundown cabin near the Catskills, the clusterfuck momentarily over.

Momentarily.

She has no doubt the peace won't last for long. That's on the list of Things That Don't Happen.

He turns away from the window, leans the shotgun against the wall and looks at her. She doesn't flinch. He's never had that power over her. He's never wanted it either. She stares back, holds his gaze and even in the dim light she's struck by how different he looks. He's put on some weight and his hair has grown a little so that it's still close cropped but not shaved. He's let his stubble grow into the hint of a beard and she finds she likes it. It's not that he looks softer - she doesn't think that Frank Castle can look soft - but he looks more human.

He also doesn't look tired. He doesn't look like it's taking every ounce of willpower to keep standing and breathing and living. He doesn't look like the world has him beaten anymore. That's new. She's not sure she's ever seen him even approach something remotely close to that before. Maybe there _is_ some kind of catharsis to be found in putting your enemies down. After all, she should know.

And she realises that she's missed him. She's really missed having this man in her life inasmuch as he ever was in her life before. It's so absurd that she wants to scream and laugh and bang her head against the wall just to get thoughts like that out. But it's true. That night sitting at the dodgy diner, drinking godawful coffee and just listening to him talk was one of the only times in recent months she'd felt okay, at ease almost. He was a friend in a time Karen Page hadn't had many. He listened. He didn't judge. He didn't lie. He didn't treat her like glass and then break her heart like it was his to break.

No, he skipped the glass part, and that's something at least.

"The pass will be snowed in by now," he says, shrugs. Leaves it up to her to figure out that that means they're safe for now but that they also can't go back.

She nods, gathers the blanket a little closer, takes a look around. It's really more toolshed than cabin. Maybe not quite that small but definitely not the log cabin of warm fires and polished floors that grace the pages of travel magazines. There's a table, chairs, a small couch that the dog has now apparently claimed as its own and some shelves with supplies. She notes some oil lamps, a hot plate and what looks like sleeping bags and thin camping mattresses rolled up next to some tinned food and cheap toilet paper. There's also what she thinks was intended as a broom cabinet but she's pretty sure that if she opened it now, it would be full of guns. Actually she's not pretty sure, she's dead certain. With an emphasis on the dead part.

"This your place?" she asks and she doesn't think he'll answer, but he does.

"One of them," he shrugs again, brushes past her and she catches a hint of blood and sweat and underneath that a whiff of soap, something that smells of herbs and earth. Of him.

She shivers but she's not sure it's the cold. Not sure of anything other than the fact that she's standing here with him in an isolated cabin and there's literally nowhere she can go without killing herself.

And she's not even slightly scared of what that means.

He's a mass murderer. She's safe. Both of these things are true.

What else is true is that she trusts him. He's probably the only person in the world to hold this dubious honour. The only person who gets to be on the list of People Karen Page Trusts With Her Life. And she really needs to stop with those lists.

He lights one of the lamps. It's dim and seems to only cast light on itself but she can't find it in herself to ask him to light any more. He only lets a little light in and maybe that's all he can handle for now. Maybe that's all either of them need.

And then he's rummaging in a bag and when she turns to see what he's doing he's standing in front of her, holding out what looks like a bundle of laundry.

"It's not much," he says. "But it's dry."

Clothes. Okay. She can do clothes. She's freezing and the blanket isn't helping much with her wet blouse and skirt or the boots which are growing colder by the second. She takes them, looks around awkwardly as he goes to the couch, lays a threadbare towel over the dog and scratches it between the ears. It nuzzles his hand and she wonders who the hell thought this dog was even remotely a good choice as protection for anything. It's as sappy as Frank and that's saying something.

He's talking softly to it, voice low and kind. She swears she hears him call it Luna.

"Luna?" she asks.

He looks at her.

"It's a good name. You wanna call her something else?"

Despite herself she laughs. It's dry and hard but it's a laugh.

"Didn't know we were adopting a dog Frank," she glances around. "Dunno if we'll pass the home check."

He smiles, it's wry and a little wan, but it's the first time he's done it this evening, the first time he's let his guard down enough, and something about that makes her heart beat a little faster, makes her breath catch in her chest.

She knows this isn't right. Her here with him. Alone and abandoned. Making jokes while God knows what's happening to Matt and Elektra. It's not right that allowing herself even a second to imagine some kind of domesticity with Frank, makes her smile, that she doesn't hate the idea. It's not right, but she doesn't care.

He sees it too, she knows he does. There's a moment where she can see he lets himself go, let's his mind wander and contemplate the possibilities. And for the second time tonight something close to peace crosses his face ... and for the second time tonight he fights it off.

And suddenly it's like the air is too thick and the world is too small and they both look away, him at the dog, her at her boots.

"Ma'am," he says, focusing on Luna. "You really should change your clothes."

He bangs on what she imagines to be a small oil heater next to the couch. "Can hang them on here. They'll dry soon."

Yeah, clothes.

She's acutely aware of how her blouse is sticking to her, cold and clammy, and that she's trembling. Part of her wonders if she'll ever be warm again. Maybe she will but probably not here, not in this freezing cabin where her breath hangs white in the air and her fingers are numb.

"Can you…" She trails off and he looks up at her expectantly. There's something very canine in it, something hopeful, like he wants to please, wants to be of service. "Can you turn around please?"

It takes him a second to parse her meaning, to understand what she's asking. He even looks a little disappointed but she's pretty sure that has more to do with not being given a bigger more useful task than losing out on seeing her undress. But then he nods slowly, turns away from her and faces the wall, hands still working through Luna's fur, his scarred, calloused fingers gentle against the dog's muzzle.

It's mesmerising in its own way. Watching Frank Castle be gentle. Watching the same man who has murdered more people than she can count, be soft, be kind. Give up his freedom, his life, his comfort for a dog. For her.

He calls her ma'am. It complicates things. Because Frank Castle is a complicated man.

She shivers again and gets back to the business of undressing. She drops the blanket, peels off her blouse which is sodden and filthy and will probably never be that warm cream it was when she put it on this morning. She dithers about removing her bra and then decides to stop being so childish about it. He's looking away and even if he wasn't, it's not like Frank Castle has never seen a pair of tits before. Sure, these are _her_ tits and she knows people talk a good game about being natural and unashamed of the body God gave you, while simultaneously having a thing about nudity specifically when it comes to them. She's no different, but the thought of staying in the cold, clammy garment, just for the sake of a little prudishness seems the height of idiocy after what they've been through. She undoes the hooks, slips the straps off her shoulders and drops it next to her blouse.

The bruise has spread over her ribs. It's red and blue, covering her left side from just beneath her breast down to the swell of her hip. It's hideous and it's going to hurt like a bitch in the morning but she has the feeling that everything is going to hurt like a bitch in the morning. Thinks her various battered and bruised body parts are all going to be vying for a first place on the list of Karen Page's Body Parts That Hurt The Most.

She shakes her head. Tells herself to focus. She strips off her boots, her skirt, her tights. She decides to keep her panties on. Frank probably wouldn't say anything if she didn't but there are some places she doesn't think she's ready to go yet. And even though she tells herself this is purely functional - she's cold and wet and they're stuck and it makes sense not to give hypothermia any more leeway than she already has - handing Frank Castle a white lacy pair of Brazilian bikinis to hang over a heater seems too much of a stretch even for that.

And yes, Frank Castle. Frank Castle still facing away from her, unmoving. So close yet so far. She stands there behind him, nipples hard in the cold, her breathing shallow and fast, white mist making swirling patterns in the air and hair wet down her back.

It wasn't meant to be like this. She was meant to be ordinary, to have an ordinary job and ordinary friends. An ordinary boyfriend who'd become an even more ordinary husband who'd be good, but ordinary, father to her wonderful but very ordinary children. She wasn't meant to fall in with Matt, she wasn't meant to love the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. She wasn't meant to understand Frank Castle, she wasn't meant to care for him in ways she doesn't think she can put into words. And even if she was, even if all those things were meant to happen and she was supposed to _do_ something, to _mean_ something, she knows she was never meant to be here, more than half naked staring at the back of Frank Castle's head and only half hoping he won't turn around.

 _And what if he does Karen? What if he turns around right now and he sees you? Not just your legs and your tits, your puckered nipples and your translucent panties. But you? You and your bruises and everything else you have to show, to offer? What then? What if he sees?_

She doesn't know. She doesn't think she has a list for it. She's not even sure what she'd call it other than More Ways In Which Karen Page Fucked Up.

And that's not really a good name.

She suddenly aware of how quiet and still everything has become. He's no longer stroking the dog and the only movement she can see is the flurry of snow outside. The distance between them stretches long and taught and not nearly as cold as it should be.

"Ma'am?" his voice is soft, but his body tense, muscles standing out starkly under his tight shirt and she wonders what they'd feel like under her hands, how it would be to bury her head between his shoulder blades and cry out all those tears she' been saving. She wonders what he'd say. If he'd even be surprised or if he'd just let her sob, hold her hands over his belly and fuck the rest.

She thinks she already knows the answer. It's not really a hard question.

He looks down, to the side. He can't see her but she knows he's straining to hear what she's doing.

"Just a second," her voice sounds thick, unsure, nothing like it should. "I'm almost done."

He nods, takes a deep breath and looks back at the wall.

He's given her a fleece hoodie, a pair of sweatpants and some socks. All black, probably all his because everything is way too big and she has to tie the cord of the pants in a double knot so as to ensure they don't fall down.

But it is warm. Blissfully so, and the material is soft against her skin. And her feet aren't cold and she's pretty sure that that is right at the top of the list of Things Karen Page Finds Important Right Now.

She drags her wet hair over one shoulder, runs her fingers through it. Hopeless.

"You can turn around now."

He moves slowly as if he's making sure she really is ready, giving her a final few seconds to cover up, stop him from seeing anything he shouldn't.

She wonders what he thinks he shouldn't see. Wonders if he has a list for it. Thinks he probably does.

She gets a half smile when he sees how badly his clothes fit, but he doesn't even glance at her bra when he retrieves her clothes from the floor and there's something very endearing in that. Not that she expected him to make a big scene about it or get weird and creepy like some men do, but she's still grateful and she's struck again by how, at his core, Frank Castle is a good man. He's not a perfect man, he's not even a very nice man most of the time. But he's a _good_ man.

He offers her coffee. Says he doesn't have any food besides some energy bars and instant noodles but she's pretty sure she couldn't eat anyway. It's not just what happened earlier, not just the fear and the adrenalin. It's so, so much more and she's not sure what to do with any of it.

But yes, coffee. _Coffee's good_.

He boils water on a small hot plate and she sits next to the dog on the couch squeezing in next to its head. It smells musty and wet and completely and utterly disgusting but she's happy it's here under a towel and not shivering in the snow outside. She touches its ear and it lifts its head to lick her fingers. It's old, white fur covering it's muzzle, and dark eyes cloudy. It's probably a little broken too. Like everything else here tonight.

"Do you think they'll be okay?" she asks, she doesn't need to specify who.

"Red's got himself out of worse," he says. "Considering there were Russians literally walking around the city openly declaring they had you, I'd say he knew it was a trap going in."

Interesting. She files that away.

"You too?" it doesn't need an answer.

He shrugs anyway.

"Why though? What's going on in that warehouse?"

He turns around, hands her a cup of black coffee and leans against the table drinking his own. She's struck again by how well he looks.

"Probably nothing," he glances at Luna, then out the window. "I think something's coming. Something big. And I think they want anyone out of the way who can stop that. People like me. Like Red. "

She sips, scalds her tongue. "So they take me."

She tries to keep her voice neutral but they way he looks at her tells her she's failed. He gets it. She's a liability. Silly little girl that the big men need to keep saving. She's meat and they're dogs and no one really cares whether she gets eaten or not. They think she's weak. Sometimes she thinks they're right or if not, they may as well be. After all it's not like she can take out an advert in the paper saying "Remnants of Fisk empire and other bad guys beware. Karen Page put James Wesley down like a rabid dog. She's badass. Stay away."

"I told you not to do that," he drains his cup. "You're here now. You're safe."

"Because of you," she says. "I'm here because you saved me. Because I need rescuing and you and Matt provide it."

She sounds harsher than she intends. And that's comforting in a way. It gives her something else to hold on to other than the strange flare of jumbled emotions from earlier. Gives her something else to think about other than him and how he's close enough to touch and further away than ever.

He frowns.

"Red saved my life too. No shame in it," he looks like he's about to add something but stops, toys a little with his mug.

She looks away.

" _Red_ ," she leans on the word. "Tonight was the third time _Red_ saved me. And if you count when he represented me when we first met it was the fourth. And it's the second time you saved me. Guess I'm just the girl who needs saving."

He sighs, pushes away from the table and crosses to the window. He doesn't need to tell her it's a blizzard outside, doesn't need to tell her they're stuck here at least until it stops but probably until at least some of it is melted. Could be hours if they were lucky, more likely it'll be most of tomorrow too.

"Ma'am," he says eventually, leaning against the windowsill. "You can't think like that. If you do you'll…"

He trails off but it's fine. She can fill in the blanks. Go mad. Turn into him. Both.

She shivers, draws the blanket closer around her. The little heater is trying its hardest to warm the place up but, between the weather and her wet clothes, it's failing horribly.

"Cold?" he asks and she nods so he grabs one of the bundled sleeping bags off the shelf, unzips it and tosses it to her, takes a mattress and sets it down on the floor.

"You can sleep if you want," for the first time he's sounds uncomfortable, like they've headed into unknown territory and he's not sure what to make of it. And she finds that amusing. Not laugh-out-loud amusing, not funny - she has the hysteria under control at least - just mildly interesting that, after everything, it's a camping mattress that sets him on edge.

She shakes her head. "Too wired to sleep Frank."

And he nods. He doesn't tell her she should or what's best for her, or how he'll be the big manly man and watch out for her. Instead he grabs the remaining sleeping bag and sinks down on the mattress himself, back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him, hand resting on the shotgun at his side.

He scrubs a hand across his face, through his hair, closes his eyes for a long moment and she's almost sure she hears him humming the first few bars to _Shining Star_. She wonders if there'll ever be a time when all the paradoxes that come together to make him who he is no longer surprise her. If she'll ever know every part of him. The violence, the tragedy, the innocence.

"Where'd you go Frank?" she asks softly, drawing her knees up to her chest, her coffee abandoned on the floor. "I looked for you."

She had. Not to turn him in, not for a story. She looked for him because she needed him. After Matt came to her with the Daredevil mask in his hands and the lies on his lips, she'd withdrawn. Too many lies, too much deceit. Even though she believed Foggy when he swore he'd told Matt time and time again to let her in on the secret, she'd felt betrayed, lost in a strange limbo that she guesses comes from being between jobs, between boyfriends, between cities, between friends. And she'd needed him, she'd needed Frank. Even though that was ridiculous and she had no right, no claim, and there was no reason Frank Castle should give two shits about her loneliness.

She didn't find him. Didn't find that honesty she was looking for either.

Until now.

She thinks he'll tell her that she shouldn't have looked for him, she should have let it be, let sleeping dogs lie but he doesn't.

"Why?" he asks and she hears genuine surprise in his voice.

 _Why? Why? Because I needed a friend you giant asshole. Because I needed someone to lean on, someone to trust. Someone to tell it like it is and say there was more to life than problems that started with an "M" and ended with an "att Murdock"._

She doesn't say any of it. She just shrugs and that only seems to trouble him more.

"Didn't think anyone but the cops was going to be looking for me," he says. "Didn't think anybody car—"

He stops himself, catches the word like a naughty child caught swearing in front of a prudish grandparent.

"Cared?" she says it for him and that edge is back. It's not loud, it's not the only thing in her voice, but it's there.

He stares at her, eyes almost black in the dim light. And then he nods, short and sharp and looks away.

"I cared Frank. I cared where you were and what you were doing. Whether you were safe."

She doesn't try for angry because she's not. Not really. Maybe it's there simmering below the surface, maybe it's looking for a way out through the cracks in her armour, but mostly she just feels resigned. Resigned to this. Resigned to losing people. Resigned to Hell's Kitchen and the lies that breed within it.

"I'm sorry," he says. And she can hear the gravity in his words, how he means them. How he doesn't deceive to her and never will. "I didn't know."

She looks away, blinking tears out of her eyes.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asks and he shakes his head. "Tonight, I was just planning on going home. That's all I wanted. Instead I've been kidnapped, I've been beaten and I thought I was going to die. I've been shot at and chased, my ex - or whatever he is - might be dead, and now I'm sitting here in the middle of nowhere freezing my ass off and all I can think is 'Holy fuck, I found Frank Castle and he's okay.'"

He doesn't say anything and she's grateful. She guesses there's nothing he can say. She guesses that things might be just as fucked up for him as it is for her and she's not really ready for whatever it is he might want to tell her, if anything. Maybe he also thinks this is too complicated to deal with right now. Maybe he doesn't have the capacity to _want_ to anymore. And she doesn't know what she wants him to do anyway. Apologise? He's already done that. Set the world on fire? He's done that too. Tell her it's all going to be okay? Hold her? _Fuck_ her? She squeezes her eyes shut, wills the thought away.

On the couch Luna rolls over onto her back, oblivious.

"I guess … I guess I just needed someone Frank."

She shivers violently then, the feeble heat doing nothing to warm her and the sleeping bag even less. She's freezing, whether from the snow outside or the emotions she's just expended she doesn't know, but her bones feel like ice and her side is aching and she's not sure she's ever felt quite so miserable in her whole life.

And something changes. She's not sure what it is or why. She likes to think of herself as a writer, as someone who has a way with words but all she can come up with is that it's like she was suffocating and someone gave her air. It's relief. Resignation yes, but still relief.

He looks her up and down and if it was any other man she'd find it lewd. But this is Frank Castle. This is the man who didn't peek when she stripped behind him, who murders men for hurting women and children, who saves dogs. Who calls her ma'am.

And God, that still complicates things.

And then he bites his lip and holds out his hand. It's not expectant, it's not demanding. It just is. _You're cold. You're sad. Let me comfort you now if I can._

And he can.

Later she might take the time to consider how exactly it all came to be. How she moved out of herself and into him. How she gave up the cold safety of the small couch for the reckless warmth of him and all he could offer. Why beneath the confusion and pain on his face there was something else. Something close to fear but maybe closer to acceptance. She won't find an answer and she'll be oddly grateful for that. This isn't a time to be considered too much, to be mulled over and dissected. It just is. It's cruelty and it's mercy.

And they both deserve a little mercy.

Teeth chattering, she stands, takes his hand and sinks down between his legs, burrowing her face against the skull on his T-shirt and bunching the fabric between her fingers. He shifts to accommodate her, bending his legs and placing his hand on her belly to draw her close, so close that she imagines he's trying to leech part of her into himself, that he's trying to learn her, know her through the shape and her smell. His other hand, the one on the shotgun, flutters awkwardly for a moment, before he wraps it across her chest, blunt fingers digging into her shoulder

And then he lowers his face and sobs into her hair.

Maybe she should be surprised but she's not. It was always going to come to this one way or another. Because this is what lost things do when they find something to hold on to. And like her, Frank Castle is nothing if not a lost thing.

They don't talk. Not for a long time anyway. They hold. They cry. They bundle under the sleeping bags and he holds her close and tight and when they're done sobbing, he rests his cheek against her temple and they listen to the wind howl outside.

She thinks about Matt but only briefly. Thinks about his Big Reveal. How he'd told her who he is and what he does and immediately descended into what she can only describe as a sanctimonious tirade on how he's different from Frank. How he doesn't kill people because killing people is bad and once you've crossed that line you don't get to come back. Not to yourself, not to God. And the more he spoke, the more she realised how important it was for him to create that distance. What he didn't realise was he wasn't only distinguishing himself from Frank, but from her too.

He didn't know of course. But that didn't make a difference. It didn't then, it doesn't now.

Maybe her and Frank are more similar than she ever imagined. The thought doesn't scare her as much as it once did.

It must be the early hours of the morning when he speaks, when he breaks the silence. It startles her at first, that he would risk this intimacy for words. But the way he brings his lips so close to her ear, the way he speaks with no guile, no artifice tells her he's not risking anything at all. He doesn't lie. He speaks truth because truth to him is important, even the ugly bits. Especially the ugly bits. But this isn't ugly. Not now. He tells her about Maria. He's done it before. Once. That night at the diner that ended in a hail of bullets. But this isn't the same. He tells her about their first date and how he was on his way to pick her up when he found a box of kittens on the side of the road. And how they never made it to the restaurant even though she was all dressed up in the prettiest dress he'd ever seen. How they spent the night driving around looking for kitten food and flea treatment and how that pretty dress was full of snags and cat hair by the time the shelter opened the next morning and they took them in. How they'd ended up having a fight because he insisted they could keep them all and she claimed, quite rightly, that nine kittens between two people, when they both lived in apartments the size of postage stamps, was ridiculous. They didn't see each other for weeks after because they were both too stubborn.

He tells her how thought it was over until out of the blue she turned up at his door with a pink cat collar in her handbag and told him that if this thing going on between them worked out that this was a gift, a promise that one day they'd have that kitten. Together. But he needed to be less of an ass. That was rule number one. Rule number two was he owed her dinner and a new dress and rule number three was if he didn't kiss her right then and there, all bets were off.

She looks up at him, asks what he did. He says he bought Maria a dress and took her to dinner. Says he kissed the lips off her face first.

He sighs, leans his head back against the wall and she knows there's more coming. His hand on her belly moves slightly until she can feel it touching her bruise. It's not unpleasant, if anything it's warm and soothing.

"Lisa ... that's my little girl..." he starts and she nods. She knows. Oh god she knows. "She loved that story. Would ask me to tell it over and over. Tells me one day that if mama won't get me a kitten she'll get one for me. That it'll be a grey tabby and she wants to call it Daisy."

His voice catches then, wavers. Breaks. She whispers that it's okay, runs her thumb along the neck of his shirt, grazing his skin, and he nods. He tells her that after the funfair they were going to the shelter. That they were going to give his baby girl what she always wanted, what her daddy always wanted too. That the next thing he knew he woke up in a hospital bed with a bullet in his brain and his family gone. That no matter what happens now, whether he ends up dead or hailed as a hero, whether he kills a million more men or none at all, he'll never have a grey tabby called Daisy. It was something only for his girl. How he doesn't even really want a cat but he misses the hypothetical one he'll never have.

She shifts, brings her hand up to grip his arm, to trace the lines of it. It's not sexual. At least not yet. Not specifically. But it's something like it. Something close. Something that's maybe more comfort than anything else. She doesn't fully understand it yet but she's learning and so is he.

He's quiet again. Melancholy. And for a while her whole world becomes his hand covering her bruise, his breath against her ear.

"You warmer now?" he asks eventually.

She nods. "It's almost balmy. Tropical even."

She feels his smirk more than sees it, imagines how his mouth is twisting on one side, the small hitch in his chest.

"Gonna put your hula skirt on?" he asks.

She nods. "And my bikini."

He chuckles dryly and she does too and he gathers her closer, his hands tightening on her, and he lowers his head and breathes deeply like he's trying to write her into his memory with her scent. That again he seems more animal than human.

She considers that there's a good possibility she's being melodramatic, that emotions are running high and that they're both crashing and maybe all these things belong on the list of Things That Only Exist In Karen Page's Wildest Delusions, but she doesn't think so. She _can't_. She's here, she's alive and so is he and the world's sappiest pitbull is snoring on the couch. It's not even far-fetched to imagine Frank Castle finds some relief in her, if nothing else. Some peace.

And if he can find it, maybe she can too.

"I killed a man," it slips out easily. It's simple as if she's telling him about her day or her favourite colour. There's no inflection, no preamble. Just honesty. As honest as he's been with her. "He wanted to hurt me, he wanted to hurt Matt and Foggy, so I shot him."

He's bowing his head again as if he's listening to a secret, as if she's talking in whispers. She wonders if she should continue. If it'll just be excuses or if he wants to know. If he can be that place she can keep her mysteries. The absent-minded circles he's rubbing into her arm tells her he can.

"He didn't think I would do it. He thought I was weak, that I was scared. I was. But I did it anyway. I shot him and he died and I ran."

She doesn't add that she's still running. She doesn't need to. He knows. There's no way he can't.

She breathes out and even though she doesn't feel cold any longer her breath makes patterns in the air, swirls and spirals and beautiful things that she wants to catch and keep forever.

She waits for him to ask who it was, to demand times and dates and in-depth descriptions, all of which she's ready to give. But he doesn't and he doesn't loosen his grip either. So she sits there, hand holding his arm, head fitted into the hollow of his neck, lulled almost by the gentle motion of his fingers.

And eventually, so softly that she very nearly doesn't catch it, he whispers.

"Thank you."

She closes her eyes. There are tears on her cheeks and she knows he can probably feel them on his skin but she doesn't care. He's here and he's warm and he's stopping her from falling, anchoring her, and that's all that counts. All that will ever count.

So he holds her and she holds him back and despite everything and all this bullshit, she's calm and she thinks he is too. She wonders what it would be like if she turned to face him now, if he would pull her close, fingers clawing at her clothes, bury his face in her chest and hold her until morning. Or if he'd pull away, break the spell. It might be too much for both of them and she doesn't want to go back to that world of bad coffee and cold couches.

But she doesn't turn. She doesn't want to ruin this moment. For the first time in what feels like years Karen Page is content. Instead she presses closer, breathes gently into his neck, sees his pulse jumping, watches as his skin tightens into goosebumps.

He sighs, grinds his teeth.

"These people," he starts and she closes her eyes. "They don't choose people who are weak. They don't care about that. They choose people who are important to others. People who can hurt."

He slides his hand from her shoulder to her neck, drags his fingers through her hair. It tugs a little but she doesn't care.

"These assholes, they don't know shit about you, except that people care about you. They do what they do because it'll hurt."

She knows what he's saying is true. It's cold comfort though.

"They know you're alive now," she says. "They'll come after you."

He shrugs and his hand drops backs to her shoulder, squeezes.

"You shouldn't have come," she continues and shivers. "You knew Matt was going. You should have left it, let him handle it. You shouldn't have come."

"I had to," soft again, another secret.

She shakes her head. "Why?"

And that's when he jerks away. Not far, but deliberate, determined, violent even - as if she's struck him. She lifts her head and he's staring at her with an expression so unlike anything she's ever seen cross his face that she almost doesn't recognise him, wonders if she's been dreaming and is now trying to swim through the thick fog that exists between waking and sleeping.

She's said something to unsettle him, even she can see that.

"Frank?"

He doesn't answer at first. Just stares at her long and hard as if he's trying to find something, a lie, a half truth, an angle. And when he doesn't, he looks even more anxious.

"Don't you know?" he asks, voice thick. Husky.

It's the gravity of the question that gets her. The earnestness. The hitch in his voice that he doesn't even try to hide.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Karen Page. None so blind.

Until now.

He doesn't look away and she lets the moment stretch, doesn't give much thought to where it's going or why. She allows herself the time to absorb this new revelation, to understand it. There's no way to beat this into submission, no list to make it seem smaller and less scary. It is what it is. Alone, stark. Out there in the cold air for her to do with what she likes. She guesses this changes everything. And also nothing. And she doesn't know what to do with it either way.

And then his hand on her belly flutters uncertainly and the one at her shoulder eases. He looks like he might say something, like he's searching for the words in his head but instead there's something in his chest, his heart, that's trying to eat its way out, words trying to burst through his ribcage and not his mouth.

He's a violent man, she guesses there's no reason why this should be any different.

Or maybe there's every reason.

She raises her hand, touches his cheek. This shouldn't be difficult. It shouldn't. Moments like these, so few and far between, so fundamentally wonderful and so terrifying aren't meant to hurt. Even The Punisher deserves that.

She can make sure he gets it. She can make it right.

She runs her thumb over his lips, soft, slow. But he's still and stoic and she thinks she might still lose him, that he'll be up and pacing and make some excuse as to why he needs to go outside and see what's going on in the blizzard. She waits for it, steels herself for the moment he takes himself and his warmth away. But then he turns his head and nuzzles her palm, eyes fluttering closed as he takes a ragged breath and she thinks maybe, just maybe, he's also been cleansed of all his mysteries, given up his secrets and found a path that is a little less dimly lit than all the others.

She thought she didn't know. But she did. She always knew.

And then she leans into him, resting her head back in the hollow of his neck, covering his hand at her waist with her own, waiting for him to part his fingers so she can slide hers between them. Hold him there.

 _It's okay. Stay. You don't have to go anywhere. It doesn't have to hurt._

And he stays. He bows his head again, lowers his mouth to her shoulder and presses a kiss into the fabric of her sweater. He breathes her name. _Karen_. And there's something in the way he says it that makes her want to cry. Cry and laugh and scream.

But she does none of these things. Instead she moves in close, let's her lips brush against his pulse. It's not even a real kiss, but it's an approximation of one. A promise.

 _Karen_.

He calls her Karen.

She thinks that might be even more complicated than calling her ma'am.


	2. As days go by, the night's on fire

**Yeah this got sequel. I've written more about why and some other stuff at AO3. There'll be more. Hope you enjoy.**

 **Title is from Hurricane by 30 Seconds to Mars**

* * *

He disappears again. It's not like she thought he'd stick around. Take her on dates. Romance her. You don't get to do that when you're the Punisher. It's right at the top on the list of Things That Don't Happen.

It hurts like a bitch though. She knows it shouldn't. She knows intellectually that these fantasies she has about him and her and happily ever afters are just that. Fantasies. She knew, even when he mumbled his way through that thing that half resembled a confession, that inevitably it did not matter. It couldn't.

But now, oh god _now_ , it feels like it does, feels like it _should_.

She tries not to think on it too much. Tries to honour her promise not to dissect it and analyse it. Tries to tell herself that they were alone and afraid, veins pumping adrenalin and that those three little words "don't you know?" could have meant anything. Anything at all, and it's pure vanity to imagine they mean what she thinks they do.

She has yet to come up with a feasible alternative though.

And it's not like she hasn't been trying.

So that's where she is. Exactly where she promised herself she wouldn't be. Overthinking. Dissecting. Analysing. And, more than anything, missing him in whatever capacity he might decide to present himself to her. And that's fucking ridiculous because she doesn't even really know what that is or what she would prefer. If she even gets a say in her preference.

The thing about all this, the thing that so complicated is they left it to fester, they never confronted it head on. They never spoke about it, partly because she didn't think there was all that much to say but mostly because she didn't have the words. Because she didn't know how to answer him. Didn't know how to do anything other than lie there warm in his arms and eventually let sleep take her, the sound of his heartbeat thrumming through her veins.

In her darker moments she derides herself as a writer, as someone whose livelihood is words and phrases, sentences that make people feel things and bring ideas home to roost. Make them laugh and cry and give meaning to meaningless things. It seems an impossibly lofty goal for a woman who literally could not find the words to answer the easiest of questions.

 _Don't you know?_

And fair enough, she asks herself that same question now every day. _Don't you Karen? Don't you?_

Yes she does, and no she doesn't. And she doesn't think there's enough space between those two binaries for anything else.

And there hadn't been when she'd had the chance. When they'd had the hours to kill between the time she woke up and he'd driven her home. Those hours they lost talking about trivial things, looking for levity and finding a close approximation of it. Those hours lost watching the LED clock ticking down in his truck as he grudgingly drove back to the city, the time she spent telling herself that she just needed five more minutes - just _five_ \- and she'd find the right thing to say, the words would come. They always do. And they have to. They just have to. Don't force it. Don't reach for it. Just let it slip out. It'll happen. It'll come.

She had turned to him as he drew to a stop outside outside her apartment, studying his profile in the half light, the dark sky and falling snow a callous and stark backdrop for words that were meant to soothe. Words she didn't know yet. There was a beauty to him. A cruel beauty but beauty nonetheless. Something he would have laughed at if she had said it to him. That sharp dry sound he makes before looking away and shaking his head as if the whole world has gone crazy and it's just him holding onto a scrap of sanity. He would have told her she's nuts. He would have been right. But that doesn't make it less true. He was beautiful, his tight jaw, white knuckles, the veins pumping in his forearms as he gripped the steering wheel so hard she wondered if it's possible to dent it. And he was grinding his teeth with such force that she leant across the space between them to touch his arm to whisper it was okay, to tell him she had something to say, that he needed to hear it. To see surprise flare in his eyes. Surprise and fear and something else that she could only describe as hope.

And then she saw his gaze flicker to the street outside and she turned to see Matt and Foggy flying out of her apartment block towards the truck, Foggy blinking at Frank as if he was seeing a ghost even though he had to know what happened and Matt giving up any pretence of being remotely disabled by his blindness as he threw the door open and half dragged her out of the seat and into his arms.

If it had been a movie, a cheesy romance based on petty jealousies and ridiculous misunderstandings, she would have said that was the moment things went wrong. When Matt's hands were on her face and her neck, in her hair, as he pulled her into a hug that left her bruised ribs aching and her chest like it was about to explode. When he whispered in her ear about how worried he was, how _sorry_ he was. How he didn't want to be without her. And many other things that only a few months before she have been thrilled to hear.

But it wasn't a movie. And it didn't go wrong there. It went wrong years before. It went wrong before she could have even known there was something to go wrong. It went wrong when a sting operation fucked itself up the ass and left one man with a hole in his head and another in his heart.

Still, when she thinks back now she doesn't remember it all chronologically. Little snatches come to her and along with them shivers of shame even though she knows there was nothing she could have done. Matt. Foggy. Luna suddenly bouncing out of the backseat and barking loud and excited in her ear. The way it had started to snow again and the air seemed simultaneously light and heavy. A homeless man crouched in a shop entrance and Foggy glancing awkwardly between her and Frank with a look that told her immediately that he wasn't going to buy any story she told him unless it was the truth.

The whole truth. Nothing but the truth.

Foggy was always the better lawyer after all.

And then Frank. Frank silent and stoic at the wheel, that white-knuckled grip only getting whiter and the grinding of his teeth almost audible over whatever it was that Matt might have been saying. She doesn't remember most of it and part of her thinks that is a blessing. Or maybe not. Because Frank heard. And while she's neither conceited nor stupid enough to even entertain the thought that anything he felt in those moments was even a shadow of jealousy, the thing she remembers the most clearly of all was the expression of quiet acceptance on his face as she watched him over Matt's shoulder. No rage, no fire. Like he'd delivered her to where she belonged and everything was as it should be.

And when she finally pulled free, he was already putting the truck into reverse and checking his mirrors for oncoming traffic.

"Frank, I…" she began.

And the look on his face was unreadable when he met her eyes.

"It's alright," he said and she wanted to scream that it wasn't, that she had something to say, to tell him and that it was important. If he could just wait. If he could just listen.

No.

He couldn't.

She saw him sigh. A brief hitch of his shoulders that would have gone unnoticed by someone who hadn't spent the night in his arms, by someone who didn't know him. It was defeat. It was acceptance. It was a bunch of other things she couldn't name and maybe didn't want to.

He nodded at Foggy and then glanced back at her, eyes black and hard.

"You take care now ma'am."

 _Ma'am_. A knife in her back may have been less painful.

And then he was gone. And, in that moment, her world became a little greyer and a little smaller, the air poisoned and harder to breathe.

So help her God indeed.

XXX

And now? Well now it's five months later, Hell's Kitchen is well into a rainy, blustery spring and Frank Castle is standing outside her window, on her wet and slippery fire escape holding out his hand. And she doesn't know whether to take it or push him the hell off.

It could go either way. Really it could.

It's not that she thought she'd never see him again. She's been around long enough to know that people like Frank don't just vacate your life with a quiet sigh, never to turn up again. They go out with a bang. Go big _and_ go home. And he's done neither. Not yet at least. So the idea that somehow she was done with Frank Castle and him with her seems not only ludicrous but wrong in a very visceral sense.

(In any case, he's had subtle ways of showing her he's alive. A 9mm cartridge left on her windowsill, her morning coffee already paid for by "a man in a skull shirt", Earth, Wind and Fire blaring forth from her radio when she starts her car. He lets her know he's around, even though he isn't.)

She guesses, however, she just didn't expect it to be like this. Inasmuch as she expected anything, gunfire and bullets and screaming were nearer the top of the list of Ways In Which Frank Castle Might Show Up Again than this apparent late night social call aka I Just Stopped Round To Say Hi aka Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?

(She's not quite sure where the last one came from.)

Still, seeing him in the flesh, solid and tangible and wonderfully alive makes her do a double take, fight down the urge to pinch herself and only half hope she won't wake up. Because yeah, it still hurts. It hurts like a fucking bitch. And his sudden presence, social call or otherwise, does nothing to quell that. If anything, it intensifies the goddamn void that she's carried alongside her for months now, the one she's been fighting so hard not to pitch herself into. She found him and then she lost him and she wonders how many more times she's destined to revisit that cycle.

"Ma'am?"

And yeah _that_. _That_ is still so fucking complicated.

She looks up at him, meets his gaze. It's hard and he's frowning but then again, he's always frowning. If anything, he seems even better than the last time she saw him. Despite the fact he's mostly shadow against the hazy city lights and he's wearing a long black coat that transforms him from just another badass pissed off motherfucker into some kind of emo superhero, - an undead Eric Draven living it up on Devil's Night - he's standing tall and strong.

His proffered hand has blood on it though. So, there's that.

She regards him for a good few seconds, his tight jaw, eyes black and blown but still looking at her like she is literally the only thing on God's green earth that matters and she wishes this didn't feel as much like a disaster as it does. Frank Castle out of hiding. Frank Castle returning from the void. Frank Castle no doubt here to finish the work of breaking her heart that he started months ago and has steadily continued to do by proxy ever since. Because he has. She hates to admit it but he has. Every free latte, every chord of _Shining Star_ , every day that he's been gone, every hour that she's found herself wondering where he is, if he's safe, if he's hurt, if he's finally doing that something that he can't come back from, has chipped away at her, has curled into her chest and poisoned her slowly from the inside.

And after all this, she shouldn't be happy to see him. She _shouldn't_ , but she is. And that's the ultimate betrayal.

And suddenly the idea of pushing him off the landing doesn't seem even slightly too harsh a solution to the current problem. It's only seven floors. And he is, after all, a tough son of a bitch. She doubts he would even bruise.

"Something wrong with my front door Frank?" she asks and it comes out mangled and not anywhere near as nonchalant as she'd hoped.

He shrugs. "Didn't want your security to break a hip."

She glares at him. Security - and she does believe that her block's supervisor is using that term in the loosest sense - is Howard. And he's old and he's sweet, even if she thinks that in the event of an actual emergency he'd probably end up hiding behind her. But he calls her "miss" and he tells her to only date gentlemen who open doors for her and on Thursdays his wife bakes a mean carrot cake and he always brings an extra slice.

"Sorry," he glances away briefly and then back at her, outstretched arm wavering ever so slightly, hint of worry in his eyes that maybe he's miscalculated, that she might shut the window in his face and leave him outside in the gloom. And she might. She just might.

Because there is every reason _not_ to take his hand. In fact the list of Reasons Not To Take Frank Castle's Bloodied Paws, which only sprang into her head a few seconds ago is probably the most densely populated tally she has right now.

(Well other than the one called Reasons Karen Page Should Push The Punisher Off The Fire Escape, but she guesses she's already decided she's not going there.)

Problem is she wants to take his hand. She wants to feel that he's really here, that this isn't some tragic fantasy come to life and she's hallucinating or dreaming or any other nonsensical thing that could account for his presence on her stairwell. She wants to touch him, feel his skin, leech his warmth from him like she did when she was cold and frightened and he held her as if she was the only thing in the world worth hanging on to.

She wants to. So she does. She stops analysing and reaches out into the night and slides her fingers into his, feels the blood - his or someone else's, she doesn't know - smear along her skin, up her wrist as his hand closes around her. And his grip is how she remembered. Strong and warm and tight and she wonders if it's the same for him. If he also needs to be sure she's real and that there's still something left for him to hold on to in this world gone crazy. Or maybe it's just because it's her and because she means something to him. She lets herself believe that and doesn't bother scolding herself for this conceit.

She has, of course, yet to figure out another meaning of "don't you know". And right now, she'll let herself entertain the most obvious one.

"Come to the roof?" he asks.

"What's on the roof Frank?"

"Nothing," he looks away again, sheepish. "Me."

"Quite the offer," she says and there's only the smallest hint of dryness in her tone. But it's also enough to make him smirk, mouth twisting up on the one side.

He's a mass murderer. He's a good man. There is no contradiction in these statements.

"Come on," he says and she pushes her window further open and lets him pull her up onto the stairs and into the night, cold April winds spiralling around her legs and whipping at the hem of her dress. And he steadies her by grabbing onto her elbow, letting her grip his arm. He smells faintly of blood and sweat which is no real surprise. But under that there's something else. Smoke, earth, petrichor. Something that smells pure and clean even though he shouldn't.

For a second it's intoxicating. Heady. His smell, his touch. It feels like she's back at the cabin, cold and naked and watching the back of his head, wishing he'd do away with gentlemanly formalities and take her. Bend her over that fucking table so she smells sawdust and feels splinters in her skin, while he slides a hand between her thighs.

And it's so fucking wrong and so fucking messed up and she tries _so_ hard not to go there. Tries so hard to hold on to what it was and let go of what it could have been. Because it was everything. It was more than everything.

But he's Frank and she's human. What ifs are just another Tuesday.

She takes a breath. Cold and wet and the air tastes of rain and blood. Clean like ozone and poisoned at the same time. In the dim light, little more than a glow really, she can see his pulse jumping in his throat, thinks of how she put her mouth there, how she tasted him, how she wants to do it again, this time on the hard lines of his collarbones jutting up just above the neckline of his shirt.

And yes, the shirt. Black and worn with a white skull on it. Not like she expected anything else. Not like it matters either way. He is what he is with or without the skull.

He takes a small step back but doesn't let go of her. "Were you going somewhere?"

For a second she has no idea what he means. But then she sees how he's looking at her in that way that should be lewd but somehow isn't.

She glances down at her dress. It's short and flared, made of silk the colour of the ocean, and it ducks low on her chest, matching high-heeled Mary Janes on her feet, silver charm bracelet on her wrist. She guesses she isn't really dressed for hanging out on roofs with wanted criminals. Guesses there isn't a rulebook for that kind of thing further than "don't do it" and "don't you fucking dare do it" and "look what you've gone and fucking done now".

She clears her throat, but her voice still comes out rough. "I went to a thing with Foggy. Cocktail party for one of his clients. He needed a date and I needed an invitation."

"Needed?" He cocks his head. "For the paper?"

She nods. She'll tell him about it even though the part of her that's not feeling weak in the knees is still debating whether a seven-storey fall could damage him irreparably. She thinks it'll be something that interests him. But maybe not at this exact moment in time, maybe not when his hands are gripping her as tightly as they are and she's close enough to feel the heat emanating off him like he's some kind of human furnace.

This is a disaster. She doesn't care.

She sees him glance down at the city, the hustle and bustle of the streets. Police cruisers and pedestrians, shops only just closing up for the night.

"Not much of a party," he says. "You leave early?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" he asks.

She cocks her head, purses her lips. She could tell him that Matt arrived, that Elektra was on his arm. That she didn't want to put Foggy in that awkward positioning he's been both dreading and predicting since the day Nelson and Murdock closed its doors. That she still hasn't told any of them what happened that night at the cabin and that he, The Punisher, hangs between the three of them like a bad memory, a taboo that only she gets to cry over.

She could tell him any one of these things. They'd all be true. He'd accept them even. But she doesn't. Because he's here and she doesn't want to think about all the reasons he shouldn't be.

She grins, throws some mirth into her voice. "I had a date on the roof Frank."

He snorts, look away again, mouth twisting into a half-smile. She's come to realise that this is how he deflects embarrassment. That on some level The Punisher is the tiniest bit shy. And that's something she files away on the list of Things Frank Castle Is. So far she has Insane, Dog Lover, Lost, Coffee Addict and now Shy. Bad Singer too, although that feels a bit clumsy and she's looking for something better.

It's not a perfect list, but it's a work in progress. She has no doubt she'll add more.

He turns back to her, says something, but the wind snatches it and she leans in to hear him, his mouth almost close enough to brush her ear as he speaks.

"I said that's a pretty dress ma'am."

She closes her eyes. He's tough and he's mean and he's difficult and there are times she wishes she'd never met him, that her and Matt had never walked into that hospital room and let go of each other's hands in front of Frank's bed. But he's also sweet. And he's also kind. Deep down, once you've drilled through The Punisher (both literally and figuratively she's willing to bet), dug through the soldier, comforted the bewildered lost boy, there's just a man. A man who was a husband and a lover. A friend. A partner. And that man is good and kind and sweet. He's funny and caring.

And oh God, they're going to need to talk about this. They're going to need to talk about so damn much.

Not now. But soon. Very soon.

"Come on," she pulls away slightly, climbs onto the step above him so that she's level with him. "I want to see what's on the roof."

"Told you, ain't nothing on the roof."

She shakes her head and the wind lifts her hair. "You're on the roof"

He snorts. It's a dry noise and sounds faintly exasperated but he follows her, a huge menacing presence at her back that's not menacing at all. And maybe she's stupid and maybe she's naive or maybe she's the only person in the whole world who has any hope in hell of understanding Frank Castle. Right now she's hedging her bets on the last one. Right now she doesn't have it in her to consider the other possibilities.

They walk in silence, the stairs twisting and bending and she feels him shift behind her and then the weight of his hand on her back, heavy and warm as his fingers twitch against the silk of her dress. And she can't help it but she arches against him, leans into his hand before she can stop herself. He sucks in a breath behind her so loud it's almost a groan and she forces herself not to read meaning into that, concentrates hard on not slipping on the wet steps. One foot in front of the other, heels chiming against the metal, echoing into the night.

She wonders what he'd do if she fell, if he'd be ready to catch her or if he'd do what he did before. Cushion her, hide her, take the pain for her.

She guesses it's not much of a question. She guesses he's answered it enough already.

The wind is stronger the higher they get and as they near the top of the building, it flips her hair and funnels under her dress, blows icy pinpricks of rain that's more like saturated mist against her skin. She should have gone back inside to get her coat. She _should_ have. Not even Frank Castle tapping on your window like a dark messenger out of a Poe composition is a good enough excuse for that level of stupidity. But she didn't. He's kept her warm once and she takes it on faith that he'll do it again.

As he promised there is nothing on the roof. She stands at the edge and all she sees is a few weak lights, some discarded beer bottles and candy wrappers, tattered newspapers and the concrete block of the maintenance room bang in the middle like some kind of industrial shrine to boilers and mops.

It's bleak and dismal and then she turns around and sees the hazy city lights, the silver grey snake that is the Hudson, the deep shadows of the docks and the lighter ones of the Kitchen and all of a sudden it's something else entirely. Something hopeful, something brimming with an untapped potential. Something that isn't good but can be.

She glances up at Frank and she knows he sees it too.

It means something even if it doesn't.

His fingers spasm again and his hand moves slightly so that it's nearly resting on her hip, a single warm shield on her chilled skin. She thinks of how he covered her belly with his palm, how he pressed on her bruise and it didn't hurt and then Matt touched it and it did. She thinks of how his breath felt on her neck, her cheek, the imprint of his lips on her temple, her shoulder, how sometimes at night, when she just feels lonely and drained, she'll put her fingers to both these places and she can almost feel his stubble scraping across her skin. She wonders if it's the same for him. If he thinks about her. If he remembers what she told him about Wesley or if it's filed away on his list of Scumbags Frank Castle Does Not Need To Kill. If he remembers her lips on his pulse. The kiss that wasn't a kiss but was a promise.

She still wants to push him off the roof though. She still tells herself that at least.

And then his fingers do settle on her hip, blunt nails pressing into her. She takes a breath, deep and ragged, and turns to him not really intending to do anything other than see his face when a sudden gust of wind screeches through the air, lifting her dress so high that she's sure he must see the lacy tops of her stockings, the tiny satin bows on her thighs.

She curses, grabs at the fabric, more exasperated than embarrassed really. No, he was no excuse. No excuse at all. She should have left him there at the window or invited him inside or done any number of things to ensure that she stayed one step ahead of the hypothermia that seems dead intent on trying to murder her every time she's around him.

And then she laughs. It's not dry. It's not even remotely hard or derisive. It's genuine and heartfelt and it takes a few seconds before she realises he's joined in, not loud like hers but his shoulders are shaking and the look on his face is bemused and wry and for a moment she considers telling him that it's terribly unfair that he's the only one getting an eyeful all the time. But she doesn't. They're just legs and it's not like Frank Castle has never seen legs. Or stockings. Or underwear. Not like anything she's got is going to come as a big surprise. And just the fact that she's thinking like this makes her want to slap herself. Imagining it all as if it is a done deal and they're on an inevitable collision course that will finally end in her bedroom.

He said "Don't you know?" and she tells herself it could mean anything. Anything. She even has a list of Things Don't You Know Could Mean. Currently it only has one item on it. She's been trying to add more. Her success has been negligible.

"Here," his coat is off and he's draping it around her shoulders, tugging it closed at her throat, knuckles brushing against her collarbones. Lingering just a little too long and then snapping away like she's burned him.

And maybe she did. Maybe that's what they do to each other now. It's okay. She can think of worse things.

She glances down. The coat hangs to her ankles and she would swear it's big enough to fit both of them. Even so she can feel the hard outlines of guns and knives in its pockets. His armory, his arsenal, strapped to him and kept close like his rage. His violence. It smells of him too. Blood. Tears. Badness. And still, underneath it all, that strange purity. That thing that is clean and all good. The husband. The lover. The father. Now all wrapped up in a disguise of vengeance and pain.

He's a monster but he's not only a monster. He's a hero but he's not only a hero.

"Come," he leads her away from the edge, out of the wind to the relative shelter behind the maintenance room. There's a narrow ledge on the outer wall, wide enough for them to half sit, half lean and she burrows further into his coat. Like him, it might be filled with death but it's warm. She guesses that's no real surprise.

He stays close but he doesn't touch her, hands clasped loosely in his lap, head tilted back against the wall. She sees now that there's a small gash on his neck, some crusted blood, the dark shadow of a bruise under his chin. He's been fighting. Killing. Punishing. Out there in this shitty little corner of New York in the shitty little corner of the world there's someone whose entire existence has been snuffed out tonight because once upon a time a sting operation went wrong. Because one man has too much rage for the whole world.

She wonders where it will end. Because it has to. Because it must.

He's beautiful. But he's also a tipped scale. An imbalance. He's _wrong_. And she's been around long enough to know that the universe has ways of righting itself. Of forcing the world back on track, even if it's down a path no one wants to go.

But not tonight. Tonight he's here and she's here and she's not going to push him off the roof. Tonight, the sky is dark and the wind is cold but the clouds are clearing and she can even see some stars twinkling down on them. Tonight he held her hands and he touched her and while this is still a disaster and she still hates the same parts of him that she loves, she lets herself believe it'll be okay. If only for a moment. However long it might choose to last.

"I'll bring a picnic next time," he hasn't moved, his eyes are more than half closed though and it takes her a good few seconds to parse his words. To realise he's teasing her.

She feels her mouth twisting up on one side.

"God Frank, did you just make a joke?" She goes for mock surprise, but there's a part of her that's genuinely shocked.

He smiles and she swears there's a hint of smugness in it.

He might be melancholy but somehow he's also okay. And she gets the distinct feeling that he's trying. Trying to do what she's not really sure. But trying nonetheless.

And if he can, so can she. She glances at the beer bottles and candy wrappers.

"We'll need to clean up here first, otherwise we might get ants."

"Fuck the ants."

"You can't shoot the ants Frank. You know that, right?"

He snorts. "I'll take that under advisement ma'am."

She chuckles, follows his gaze up to the night sky.

"They were going to have fireworks," she says softly and he opens his eyes, turns to look at her questioningly.

"The party," she stuffs her hands into his pockets to stop fidgeting. "it was some rich investor, a client of Foggy's new firm, with literal money to burn, buying up the last remaining Fisk properties. Went all out. Five-star catering, dancing, even had acrobats. Said if the sky cleared there'd be a fireworks display."

"Cocksucker," he says.

She nods. He's not wrong. A rich Russian cocksucker with promises that sounded exactly like Fisk's own from a year ago. And like Fisk there was nothing on him. Squeaky fucking clean with a gentle nature and a sparkling smile to match.

The more things change the more they stay the same.

He says he's going to spruce the place up, create jobs, bring tourism into the neighbourhood. Promises as empty as his smile.

She doesn't believe one word of it but unfortunately the _New York Bulletin_ has a policy against running stories that amount to "Karen Page has a bad feeling about Hell's Kitchen's latest white knight" standfirst "but she's totally chill about the vigilante problem". So instead she's looked. She's looked hard. And even Ellison, usually happy to trust her instincts, has encouraged her to think a bit more positively about it. In fact his exact words were "how come you can give The Punisher the benefit of the doubt after everything he's done, but the minute someone actually does something good, you question it?"

She guesses he's right. But then he's not standing on the roof with The Punisher knowing that he'd literally die to protect her. Or because she asked. Whichever comes first.

Because he said "don't you know" and she knows exactly what he meant.

Yeah maybe her judgement isn't as sound as she likes to imagine.

"Asshole is going to have every damn dog in New York thinking it's gonna die," he's muttering next to her. "They don't fucking understand."

She's mildly amused that she's telling Frank about a potential Wilson Fisk version 2.0 and he's worried about some as of yet unrealised fireworks scaring dogs. But then again dogs are probably the only thing in the world that he loves more than killing scumbags, so maybe it's not that strange. After all, the last time she saw him he risked his life for a junkyard dog. A sappy, silly, ridiculous version of a junkyard dog, but a junkyard dog all the same.

"Do you still have Luna?" she asks and he hesitates a moment before nodding his head. She knows why. Luna is tied to that night. Luna lying asleep on a small couch while she undressed and imagined him bending her over that rude table, while they sat on the floor holding each other and touching each other and sharing their secrets. Luna, silent in the backseat as they drove back to New York and everything went back to how it was before.

"I'm going to take her to New Jersey," he says and there's a hitch in his voice. "I know a woman who owns some land, runs a sanctuary. She owes me a favour."

Sure, a favour. Karen doesn't ask. She doesn't need to.

"I took her to the vet," and again it's one of those things about Frank that makes sense but doesn't. The fact that he spends his time on a rampage against all that is dark and evil and bad in this world. That he needs this rage he keeps inside him to fuel every last thing he does. And somehow he also takes his dog to the vet like every responsible pet owner should do. She'd say that one of these things is not like the others but it is. It really fucking is.

"What did the vet say?"

He takes a deep breath and she realises this is hard for him. "The good news is she isn't as old as we thought. She's only about ten or eleven. But the assholes who had her didn't treat her well, didn't feed her. She's rundown and she's not as healthy as she should be. Probably had too many puppies as well."

None of this is really a surprise and she feels a flash of guilt that before everything went to shit that night she'd decided not to go and help the dog. She knows her reasons. They were good enough at the time. But they don't feel good enough now.

"So now what?" she asks and he looks at her sharply and she wonders why. Wonders where this fearfulness of her judgments comes from. It's like he doesn't trust her to trust him to do the right thing. It's the same look he gave her back in the cabin, the same one where she felt she was being scanned for artifice and trickery.

 _Don't you know?_

"We have another appointment in a few weeks, they need to check her for a couple things and then I'm going to take her up to the sanctuary," he pauses. "I can't… with that I do… it's a risk you know?"

She knows. He doesn't need to explain. One day he might not come home and what's left for Luna then? A slow death from starvation all alone?

She reaches for his hand, covers his fingers with her own and for a second he does nothing. He's quiet and contemplative and she thinks he'll just leave it at that, keep to himself and his thoughts of his dog and everything else he's lost and is going to lose too. But then his hand turns under hers and he grasps her tightly, thick fingers sliding through hers and bending to rest on her knuckles.

"Luna's a good dog," he says softly and she smiles and rubs her thumb along the hard ridges of scar tissue on the back of his fist. "Gonna be sad to see her go."

And he just sounds so damn dejected. So resigned and maudlin that she shifts closer and leans against him, rests her cheek against his shoulder and she's not surprised when he lets go of her hand to slide his arm around her shoulders, tug her a little closer and touch his lips to her hairline, breathe her in. She gets it. It's something else he's going to lose. Something else that's going to be ripped away because of who and what he is. And yes, it's his choice. He'd be mortified to hear anyone call it anything else, but it doesn't make the consequences hurt less.

He's alone. He's always alone.

She adds that to the list. Insane. Dog Lover, Lost, Coffee Addict, Shy, Bad Singer, Alone.

Good. Even when he's not.

Good, even when she wants to push him off the roof.

And she doesn't want to. Not anymore. She wants to sit here with him, and watch the sky, feel the wind blowing at his coat and not get inside, his arm around her shoulders, hard and strong and that bloody, earthy smell of him. It doesn't matter that he's been mostly absent. She gets it. Even if it hurts. She's always known that this - whatever it may be - is not going to be easy. And that's if it's anything at all. And in that respect it doesn't really matter what it is that they have. As long as they have something. As long as Frank Castle occupies any small space in her mind and her heart, as long as he takes up any of her time, this is going to be painful. It doesn't matter if he intends it or not, if he contributes actively or passively, it will change them both. It will be difficult. It might be impossible.

She doesn't care.

"You did it again Frank," she whispers and there's no edge in her voice, no accusation. "Disappeared."

"I know," he says.

"Why now?" she asks and he shrugs.

"Thought it would be okay. Thought it would be safe…"

There's something about the way he says '"safe" that tells her he's not talking about bad guys and cops on the hunt for his blood.

"And is it?" she asks. "Is it safe?"

He shifts uncomfortably next to her, rolls his shoulder. She notes that he looks more than a little concerned as he stares down at her, scrutinises her in that way she probably wouldn't allow anyone else to do.

He swallows, meets her gaze.

"No," voice thick, deep. "No it's not."

She nods, rests her head back against his shoulder. She gets it.

"Don't you know" means exactly what she knew it meant.

They sit in silence for a while and she listens to the sound of his heartbeat, slow and steady in his chest, the wind raking through her hair, and rustle of his coat as he absently rubs his hand up and down her arm. Somewhere she hears music start to play, a steady bass drum and the unmistakable sound of a 90s guitar solo. She thinks it must be the newlyweds on the top floor. The walls are paper thin in the building and she thinks they use it to muffle the sounds of them fucking.

He asks if she's okay and she nods. She is.

"Thanks for all the coffee, by the way," she says and he snorts.

"Sure."

"I'm winning on weekly expenses now. You know how much I save by getting a free latte every couple of days?"

"Probably as much as I spend buying double."

She laughs and his hand slips to her waist, tugs her in closer, fingers pressing into her hip through the leather of his coat, the thin material of her dress. If she looked at him now he would kiss her. She knows this. It's not even a question. But it brings up a lot of others. Scarier ones, bigger ones. Questions about where it would go and what it would do. If she's ready to accept the consequences.

She is, but she's also not. And that leaves her nowhere.

Nowhere but here. In his arms and wishing he'd just make the decision for her. That's he'd take her jaw in his hand and kiss her hard and fast, bite at her lips, taste her blood. Not for the first time she thinks that if he had just turned around that night in the cabin - if he'd just fucking turned around and seen her - if he taken her body on the table instead of taking her heart into his hands on the floor, things would have been different. It would have been easier. Hook ups and one night stands, bad decisions and even moments of pure blind irrationality are easier to explain, to put behind you, than what they did, what he told her.

It's too much and it hurts. And she doesn't want it to hurt any worse than it already does but she knows there's no way to make that happen. Like he said, it's not safe. Not for him, but not for her either. So she stands and shrugs out of his coat, let's the cold air touch her skin and instantly turn it to gooseflesh.

Next to her he flinches, looks up at her worried and confused, grinding his teeth, biting down on the inside of his cheek. She wonders if he'll always be like this. On edge. Ready for someone to hurt him, and even more ready to hurt back. He's not well. He's lost and lonely and thinks that is how he should be forever.

She can soothe it. She has already.

She reaches out, touches his cheek, the prickles of his stubble, and then takes his hands into her own, pulls him to his feet. In the distance, the bass keeps thudding and she moves into the wind, lets it whip at her legs, flare her skirt.

Sometimes the poison is also the cure.

"I didn't get to dance Frank," she says. "I left before it all started."

He doesn't get it at first. Stands there dark and brooding, head cocked, interested but also suspicious. And then he looks away, shy smile which she thinks was intended to be exasperated but isn't, creeping onto his face.

"You're fucking nuts," he says, shaking his head. "You know that Karen? You are fucking nuts."

"Come on Frank," she walks a few steps backwards. "Only music I hear these days is Earth, Wind and Fire when I get into my car."

"Don't be hating on Earth, Wind and Fire," he says, but he follows her and when he lifts her arm high into the cold air, she takes his lead and spins, stops caring about the cold and the wind and the flare of her dress. Doesn't care that if he magically missed the tops of her stockings, the slim lace garters, earlier on, that there's no way he's missing them now.

Not like Frank Castle has never seen legs before.

But it doesn't matter because he's laughing. Actual laughs. No snorting or eye rolling. And it's cold and the roof is still wet and every step she gets to take without falling is both a gift and a miracle. But it doesn't matter. He'll catch her if she falls. When she gets to dizzy. Too giddy.

And then suddenly the sky explodes above them. Trails of red fire catapulting through the air, shattering into swirls and spirals, raining down to earth in cascades of flame.

She stops spinning, grabs onto his shoulders and his hands dig into her waist as the the red light is replaced by blue, then green, orange. Plumes of coloured flame setting the night on fire. It's lurid in the worst possible way but it's also spectacular. Hell's Kitchen, one of the seediest parts of New York, putting on her gaudiest gems, hiking up her skirts like a cathouse Madam well past her sell-by date, giving the world her final stand, the final middle finger. She's brazen and brassy. She's hideous.

She's beautiful.

"They did it," she says softly.

"Assholes," he mutters, but when she looks at him he's staring at the sky. Fascinated as a series of multi-coloured peony shapes erupt above their heads, strings of crystal light and bursts of blue fire that look like fish tails raining down over the river. The smell of gunpowder in the air.

She shivers and he absently pulls her closer, one hand rising to rest around her shoulders.

"You're freezing," he says.

But she's really not. She's not cold at all. And she tells him so.

He runs his hand down the back of her arm to her elbow, scoffs at her, seems to completely miss the way she arches against his touch.

More bangs. Smaller ones now. White and pink like candy fizzing out quickly only to be replaced by golden Roman candles and a pale blue crossette.

"Come on, you're shaking," he says.

And suddenly she's giddy again, whether from the spinning or from him she doesn't know. She finds it very hard to care.

"I know."

Watching realisation dawn on Frank Castle is a strange thing. It's not that he's stupid. It's not that he struggles with things like this although maybe he does more now since a bullet ripped through his brain and still left him breathing and standing on the other side. But he's like a child untying a gift from a particularly malicious uncle that he's already decided is going to be a pair of socks and actually finding that it's a model aeroplane or a trick bike. It's a look that goes from resignation to sudden elation and then almost immediately to suspicion. He gives himself seconds and then waits for the other shoe to drop.

It's not safe. Not at all. But she wants to change that. Even if all it does is make things more dangerous.

It can't be a surprise to him though. He had to know. He had to know it would come to this.

"Frank," her voice is low and thick and she thinks she must sound ridiculous. "When I got out of the car that day…"

"Don't," he warns.

But she has to. She knows she does and she ignores him.

"When I got out I wanted to tell you something and you didn't give me a chance and then you disappeared."

He looks away, up at the sky. She wonders if he's hoping for another firework. Another copper chloride waterfall to distract her. A sound like gunfire to silence her.

He gets neither.

She touches a hand to his jaw and he closes his eyes, turns his face towards her palm. It's not a nuzzle but it's the hint of one. The bones of it.

"I told you the night you took Schoonover that I was done," he flinches as she says it but she barrels on, throwing the words out in front of her before she loses them. "I'm not done Frank. I'm not."

He's still for a moment, his skin warm and rough against her palm. He sighs, something that sits halfway between satisfaction and resignation and his hand at her waist slips, thumb rubbing along the line of her hip, fingers pressing into her so that she's sure he'll leave marks on her skin. Little crescent moons of bruise and blood.

Another explosion, a sound like a bomb going off above them. This one a huge silver star that lights up the sky and vibrates through her skin, down her legs, into the ground. He opens his eyes to look and she thinks he's buying time, trying to find words like she was, spit them out in some order that makes sense.

But she doesn't care if it makes sense. She doesn't. She's spent so long missing him. So long just longing for him. Needing that connection that she can safely say she never felt with anyone else. Not Matt. Not Foggy.

"Ma'am."

It's complicated. Yes. But it's also like a switch. And it makes her dizzy all over again and she closes her eyes because she just can't anymore. Because this is still not how it was meant to be. This was not how her life was supposed to go and whereas before she could have railed against it. She could have told herself that sometimes things just don't work out and you end up with something you neither want nor need, she can't do that now.

Because this … this is better.

And it scares her how little it scares her.

He kisses her palm, pulls her hand away from his face to rest on his heart and leans down to press his forehead to hers, slides both hands to her shoulders, thumbs sweeping across the ridges of her collarbones, her skin icy but somehow also not. His breath is warm on her face, tiny patches of heat that smell of blood and coffee flaring on her skin. And inside she's screaming _Kiss me Frank. Kiss me now, because I can't fucking stand another second of this_.

He makes a sound like nothing she has ever heard from him before, something deep and guttural and not entirely human. And the next thing she knows his hands have returned to her waist and he's backed her into the wall, cold cement against her skin, his knee pressed between her legs. And she can feel him hard against her hip.

He's breathing slow and deep like he's trying to control it, like he's trying to fight whatever he's feeling back into submission, stop his body from betraying him. And she really wishes he wouldn't. It's not that she's hugely experienced in the world of sex and love. It's not like nothing is new or taboo to her. But there's something in her that longs for him finally set free. That longs to find the kindness in his brutality. She thinks she's already found part of it. In his mind, his heart. But maybe the rest is in his hands, his body, his strength.

And she wants so much for him to show it to her.

He's touching her though. Touching her with purpose, with meaning. Slow, deliberate strokes against her hips and belly, one hand dropping low on her back and the other spread over her ribs so that his thumb is millimetres away from her breast. She arches against him, tilts her head slightly to give him access to her neck, trying not to bear down too hard on his knee and failing miserably as he shifts it higher between her thighs.

And when his teeth scrape against her throat she gives up all pretense and hooks her fingers into his belt loops, tugging him closer so that she can feel all his hard and throbbing outlines against her.

There's a moment before it all falls apart that he lifts his head from her neck and their eyes meet. Maybe someone else would have called his expression fathomless or incongruous or whatever other word they'd like to use for unreadable, but it's not. Rather it's a mixture of things. Confusion, concern, understanding, fear and roiling beneath it all, desire. Arousal so strong she can almost taste it in the air. But he stares at her long and hard and she realises he's asking permission, that he's giving her the chance to refuse him. To say no. That on some level he's even hoping for it.

Breathless.

She lifts her hands from his waist, slides them up his arms to his shoulders, his neck, fingernails snagging on his shirt and nothing but corded muscle and sinew underneath.

"Frank. Please."

He blinks, swallows heavily. She wants to tell him that it's okay, that he doesn't need to be nervous, that it's just her and he's safe with her. Even if he doesn't think he is. Even if he's not. But her throat is tight and her tongue feels clumsy and thick in her mouth. He brings his hand to her face, combs his fingers into her hair, touches her cheek, thumb skimming her lips … and suddenly he's gone and the cold air rushes in fast and hard as he steps back so sharply that she almost pitches forward, only catching herself half against the wall and half on the stupid little too-narrow-for-sitting ledge.

It dawns on her then that he could have dropped her. After everything. He could have and she has no idea how to feel about that.

When she looks up, he's holding his hands out in front of him as if they're not part of his body, as if he doesn't recognise them or is only just coming to see them as his own.

And he looks horrified.

It takes her a second to realise why, to quiet that part of her brain that's still running hot and wired and focus on him and what he's doing.

The blood on his hands. He didn't know. He had no idea.

She straightens. The wall, previously cold and rough at her back now feels solid, comforting. Stable. She takes a tiny slow step forward, says his name. Softly. Gently, like she would approach a stray dog she was unsure of, or a feral cat with a wounded leg. But he's not slow. His head snaps up and he's looking at her. Not like he did before. Not like she was the only thing worth looking at, not in his unique way which is both vulgar and also nothing of the sort. No, he's looking for something and even though she knows he's had his hands all over her, she hopes he doesn't find it.

He does.

She sees it in his eyes. Sees the the little hope that existed there snuff out like a pinched candle.

She takes a breath, makes herself focus. Takes inventory. Shoes, stockings, dress.

Dress.

A mark. A stain. Reddish brown on her hip, another on her wrist. Smeared and faint against the teal silk but obviously handprints. His hands. The ones he is looking at like they don't belong to him or on his body.

And for a moment it all seems so silly. So ridiculously silly and she wants to haul him back in, put his hands back where they were, his knee back between her thighs. And she'll tell him to stop worrying and do what it was he set out to do. That it's only a dress. She'll get it dry cleaned.

But she knows it's not about the dress. It's not about the blood either.

It doesn't matter. She's saying it anyway. Hoping that it'll be enough. But it isn't.

He steps forward, lifts a hand and presses his thumb to her jaw, holding it there and she realises she has another mark on her face, some more smeared blood and he's covering it now, making sure he knows where it came from. How it got there. That he put it there. His blood or someone else's, she doesn't think it matters in his head.

It's not about blood.

It's about him. It's about Maria. It's about everything this can and can't be.

 _Don't you know?_

"Frank…" it sounds like she's begging. She doesn't care. "Frank, it's okay."

But it's not.

He touches her waist, performs the same ritual of covering the marks with his fingers. And even though this is the worst thing that could happen, it feels so good when he puts his hands on her. So good when he blocks out that cold air and leaves only his warmth.

And then his hand drops to his side and she closes her eyes. Waits for what she knows is coming.

He inhales. And it feels like he's sucking all the air out of the world.

"This can't … ma'am. It's not..."

She's not surprised. Not surprised he would come to her to feel better and then stab himself in the back the second he felt strong enough to do so. He's the Punisher. It makes sense that he punishes himself most of all. But it still hits her stomach like a lead weight, pulls her down. Grief, disappointment. Fear. The truth is it all feels the same anyway.

But it also makes her angry. Angry that he disappears, angry that he doesn't. Angry that he dragged her out here only to find more twisted and vicious ways to break her heart. As if he hasn't done that enough already. As if he hasn't delivered her this particular flavour of emotional whiplash before.

Maybe she should have been ready, but she wasn't.

"This thing between us," his voice is choked and thick and she can feel his breath against her skin, warm and damp. "We have to let it go."

She opens her eyes. She decides she won't look away. She'll leave that for him.

"Frank, I know you don't want that," she's impressed by the steel in her voice. How level and reasonable she sounds even to herself.

"Doesn't matter what I want."

Sure. Sure. She expected that.

"And what about me, doesn't that matter either?" Still calm. Still controlled. But inside she's screaming at him that it's only a little bit of blood. That she knew it was on his hands the second he touched her and she didn't care and she still climbed out the window and still came to the roof and still danced with him under the stars.

He sighs. Blinks. Frowns. Somewhere she realises that he knows he can't win this argument, but also that it's not about winning. These things seldom are.

"Ma'am, you should go. Go make a life for yourself," he bites his lip again, seems to have to force the words out. "Red still loves you. Forget me and this."

Later she'll wonder if a slap to the face would have been easier. Not that he would have. Not that he wouldn't annihilate anyone who would raise his hands to her. But this. This is a level of cruelty she didn't expect. Of all the things he could have said. Of all the buttons he could have pressed he went for that. He doesn't fight fair. It's no surprise. Nothing that he's done or had done to him in the past two years has been fair. No reason this should be.

Still though. _Still..._

She draws away from him and even now she can see that it hurts him. That a strike against her is a strike against himself too.

"Don't make decisions for me Frank. You respected me once enough not to do that. Nothing's changed."

"Really?" he laughs and suddenly it's dry and mean. "Nothing's changed?"

"Not that."

He's quiet for a few seconds, standing there in front of her all nervous energy and fidgeting. Glancing at the sky, the ground, the beer bottles and the rubbish. He said he should have brought a picnic. He made a joke. It was all so perfect and then it wasn't. Then it became this.

"I told you to stay away from me," he says.

"You told me to hold on with both hands."

He has no answer to that. She can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way he looks at her. Still, like she's the only thing in the whole world worth looking at. Still, like he wants nothing more than to stop doing what he's doing and just bury himself in her and never let go. She wonders if this is just how he does this now. If he has to let whatever is inside him out through his rage.

She tried to take it from him once. Tried to make it easy. Tried to soothe so the moment didn't hurt, so that the little monster that lives inside him didn't need to force its way out and crack his ribs and wring his heart out as it went. She chose to make it easy. He's choosing not to.

He bends down, picks up his coat.

"I'm sorry," and there's no artifice in his voice. He _is_ sorry. "I can't bring this to you too. It's not safe."

A step backwards. Another long meaningful look. He look like he might say something and then he bites his lip so hard that she's sure it must bleed. He turns away from her and when he speaks his voice is rough and choked, smallest hint of rage, something else that sounds like fear.

"You forget about me. I won't take up any more of your time."

It's the first time he's ever lied to her and every word hits her in the gut like a bullet.

He walks to the fire escape, pauses when his hand touches the railing, but he doesn't look back and then he's gone. By the time she gets there, cold and shivering and cursing herself for crying, because she always damn well cries and she can't fucking help it no matter how hard she tries to stifle the tears, there's no sign of him. Like he threw himself off the building and disappeared into the night. Like he did her job for her or was never really there at all.

She covers her mouth, stifles a sob and wraps an arm around her belly. In the distance a final firework explodes, cascades down in a waterfall the colour of blood. She turns away. He was right.

There was nothing on the roof.


	3. There's an awful lot of breathing room

**Once upon a time she derided herself for imagining they were a done deal on a collision course straight to her bedroom. But that's all over now and he's gone, hasn't been back since he walked off her roof and disappeared into the night air. It's not all bad though. She has friends, she has work and tonight she even has cause to celebrate. It is, after all, her birthday and there's a chance the universe will be kind. It's just a chance though. And not a very good one.**

 **Title from Matchbox 20's _If You're Gone_**

 **I don't own anything.**

* * *

It's counter-intuitive but things actually get better after that. Not that they'd been bad before he rocked up on her fire escape with the task of breaking her heart as his top priority. She'd had work and Foggy. She'd had something resembling the daily grind of everyday life. Maybe it hadn't been living but it hadn't just been existence either. But she'd missed him. Missed him so much and while she was not one to give herself over to ideas of only being complete with another person or someone else giving your life purpose, not having him around was sad. Because it's sad to not be near the people you care for most in this world. In any event she didn't like the idea that she could be so head over heels for someone just because he found some sweet words and told them to her.

But there was always the anticipation. The rounds on her windowsill, the free lattes. There was Earth, Wind and Fire and that stupid song she hates so fucking much. That spark of hope that he'd turn up, that he'd answer his own question.

 _Don't you know Karen. Don't you know?_

And he did. And then he took it back.

And now that anticipation has gone, ripped off fast and quick like a Band Aid. And that's not to say it doesn't hurt. It does. It hurts so fucking much she wants to scream sometimes. But the hurt doesn't get any worse. It doesn't chip away at her. She tells herself she's still here, she's still okay and surviving. And he can't be any more gone than he already is.

Except he can.

And she pushes that so far down onto the list of Things Karen Page Refuses To Acknowledge Ever that some days she only thinks about it two or three times.

She works too much and too late. It seems a good escape and she's desperate to dig up something on this new Russian interest in Hell's Kitchen. Desperate to find something on this Alexei Smirnov, with his rugged good looks and empty smile and a name as common to Moscow as John Smith would be to New York. And even though Ellison is wary and keeps throwing Frank in her face and is slowly trying to direct her interests elsewhere, he gives her as much leeway as he can.

She moves too. Claire tells her about a rental going in her apartment block and it's both cheaper and twice the size of her place. And it doesn't matter that the bedroom and the lounge occupy the same space. There's a separate kitchen and a bathroom with a shower and the water pressure is good. Better than good.

She does miss Howard and his carrot cake though - his seemingly bottomless pit of relationship advice, some of which she wishes she could take to heart. The new place's security is _actual_ security in the form of a severe middle-aged woman called Irene who Karen is convinced was once a drill sergeant. And while Claire insists that you get used to her disapproving stares and the way she looks meaningfully at her watch when you get home after 9pm, Karen has yet to find a way to stop feeling like she's sixteen and sneaking back home after a night of underage drinking and hookups in the park.

She avoids Matt and she knows that's not helping and it makes Foggy whine about having to "cheat" on his two best friends but she can't do anything about that. It's too much. After everything she doesn't think she can deal with Matt too. There's a hard limit, this is it.

She knows that Claire patches him up every few weeks and there was one incident the day after she moved in when Claire called her to come and help move him onto her couch when he was so wounded that he couldn't stand and was bleeding out all over the floor.

It had been a terrible night. Matt was delirious, wailing from the pain as Claire stitched him up slowly and methodically. And Karen had held him down by his shoulders and talked nonsense to him.

She's not sure what she said. There was so much blood and he was in agony and he kept telling her over and over again how sorry he was. How they could work it out and he'd never hurt her again until Claire had eventually injected him with something that rendered him speechless and unable to move.

She'd shrugged. He was pissing her off, she said.

And then they'd sat together and drank tea until he woke up and Claire called Foggy and sent her home.

After that they didn't talk about him much. Claire knows she can call for help if she needs it but she's wise enough to know that much like anything else in Karen Page's excuse for a love life - shambles that it may be - her dalliance with Matt is off limits.

Frank was right. Red does still love her. And while she's not really sure what's going on with Elektra, she's willing to hazard a guess that he isn't either.

Either way. Hard limit. No Matt. No Red. No Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

To be fair Frank's a hard limit too but the only one who has any idea about the specifics of that is Foggy. And even he doesn't know all that much. He's asked, she's deflected. He's side-eyed her and she's told him to stop. And then he's reiterated that she can tell him anything. That he's good at keeping secrets. And he is. She knows this first hand.

But even if she was ready to talk about this in any capacity she's not sure what she would say. _Frank Castle's kind of in love with me and I'm kind of in love with him, but things are kinda awkward right now? He broke my heart and left me on the roof in the cold? I want to fuck a mass murderer and I'm not even sorry. And I'm pretty sure he wants to fuck me too, what do you think of that?_

Thing is she thinks Foggy probably would understand. He'd tell her she was stark raving mad. He'd tell her she was fucking up in the worst way possible. And then he'd tell her that we don't choose who we love and let her sob into his shirt. Because she would sob. She's decided to stop being embarrassed about it.

Maybe she'll tell him. One day. Maybe.

In the meantime she has work, she has this kinda sorta friendship with Claire that they both need more than they care to admit. And then there's Pickle. A loud and obnoxious ball comprised entirely of black fluff and rage that walked in off her fire escape one day and never left. And no, she tries so hard not to think about how that's a thing. Because it's not. It's _not_.

Either way it means she has a cat in a building that has a no pet policy and a former drill sergeant guarding the door.

Life is interesting, even when it's not.

But no Frank. No sign of him. Nothing at all. And it's not just the lack of free latte or the fact that she hasn't heard _Shining Star_ in weeks. It's once again the severe absence of cadavers, of gunfights, of gangs of Irish and pedophile rings being slaughtered wholesale. Either he's gone quiet or he's found better ways to hide bodies. She's betting on the second option.

She knows she could always ask Matt. It wouldn't be weird even inasmuch as it wouldn't be weird that their first real conversation in months would be about Frank. But then he knows her and Frank have a certain closeness - he wasn't even remotely concerned about sending her off with him that night when the world went to shit and The Punisher vomited his feelings all over a cold cabin in the middle of nowhere. So it would hardly even register on a normal person if she just casually dropped it into conversation. But Matt isn't a normal person. And she doesn't trust her heartbeat not to elevate, nor her skin not to bloom heat, nor her voice to stay steady.

He'll know. And she doesn't want him to. Not for any nefarious reason, not because she wants to give him false hope that she hasn't moved on. But because she feels she at least deserves to be able to figure out what is going on with her and Frank before Matt does.

And yeah, there's something uncomfortable asking one vigilante about another vigilante. Like violating a criminal version of the Bro Code or something. Not that Frank and Matt are bros. But the thought makes her smile.

Either way she thinks it's probably better not to try and force any sort of contact with Frank. Not after everything that happened. Not after the roof and his knee between her legs and his hands all over her.

Not after that. Don't pick at wounds that are only just starting to scab over.

"You going to your own damn party or am I going to have to get security to throw you out?"

She looks up from the empty document on her laptop.

Ellison. Dressed in a plaid shirt and an ill-fitting pair of chinos, one foot in her office the other in the passage outside, hand on the doorframe. That seems to be his thing, always half in, half out, like he thinks he could be invading her space if he actually moved himself all the way into the room. She's starting to wish some of the other men in her life might do the same.

Although Ellison can keep the beard. It looks terrible.

"It's a drink with three friends," she says shutting her laptop, glancing at the sunflower arrangement on her desk and the brightly coloured gift bags in the corner. "It's hardly a party."

He nods like he doesn't really believe her. Same expression as when she claims not to know if The Punisher is alive or what the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's true identity is. He humours her, she realises. He humours her a lot.

But in this instance, she isn't hedging. Yes, it _is_ her birthday and yes, she is indeed going out for a drink, but it's not a big thing. It's not even a big birthday and she'll be in bed by 11:30. Maybe with some take-out or a whole cake that she plans to eat all by herself and consequences be damned. Maybe with a good book or a bad movie. Her plans aren't big - they never are anymore.

"If it was four, would that make it a party?"

He's retreated slightly out of her office, not fully, but there's less of him inside than out and she wonders if he's anticipating being turned down. Which in itself is ridiculous as she was the one that suggested he come along in the first place.

She rakes a hand through her hair, looks out of the window at the rapidly darkening sky, the storm clouds which have yet to move on from Hell's Kitchen even though weathermen far and wide are reporting that summer is _just_ around the corner. It's not cold anymore, not truly, but the sun has yet to show its face and the air still feels heavy and saturated. Cloying, like it doesn't want you steal too much of its air. Foggy insists that the weather is just wet enough to piss him off. But she knows he'll be saying the same thing about the heat when the scorching summer rolls around.

She turns back to Ellison. She guesses he's about 70 per cent out of her office now, but he's still clinging to the doorframe. Holding on with both hands.

She pushes the thought away. "I guess so. At least as much as anything is a party at Josie's."

He rolls his eyes, makes a face. "Josie's? I knew I was going to regret this."

She smiles, asks him if he's up to date with his tetanus shots and he gives her a sour look, retreats even further out of her office as she stands and slips her laptop into her bag. Ellison is wonderfully squeamish when you know the right buttons to press. He won't bat an eye at gunshot victims and eviscerated remains found floating in the river, once even commented that the meat hook incident with The Punisher was "not his best work", but give him a dirty plate or show him a cockroach and he turns a nasty shade of green. And well, Josie's has both of those in abundance.

She uses her hip to push her chair in under her desk and glances around the office. The flowers can stay. She'll take the gifts home on Monday. There are times she's not 100% sure about this journalism gig, not sure about the bullshit and the hours or that she even has thick enough skin to make this her life, but her colleagues in general are great. Better than great.

Ellison finally commits fully to the passageway and let's go of her doorframe as she steps towards him.

"They water down their beer you know?" he says as she locks her door. "And their glasses aren't clean."

She nods. "They always give the dirtiest ones to old men who complain too much. Josie knows where it's at."

He narrows his eyes, purses his lips. She knows he's going for mock concern but he's not quite managing to hide very genuine worry. And she wants to tell him not to worry. That her and Foggy have been visiting Josie's for the best part of a year and a half now and they're both still alive, but he's been dishing out some godawful deadlines as of late and his critique of some of her ideas has bordered on downright nasty, so she decides to let him suffer a bit.

It's just dirty glasses. He'll survive.

He should at least.

They decide to walk to Josie's. It's near enough because most places within Hell's Kitchen are and you generally only need a car if you want to avoid being mugged (or if there's a man with a double barrel shotgun blowing his way through a hospital and you need to get the scumbag he is after away really fast - but she's not going to think about that now). Besides it's not cold and parking is always a bitch to find near Josie's which somehow manages to stay popular despite it's less than sterling reputation.

"So who's coming?" Ellison asks as they sidestep some falafel vendors. "Who are these fine friends with whom you're going to spend this here, day of Karen Page's glorious birth?"

She gives him a dry look. He's not an idiot. She spends enormous amounts of time in the office, more than she should, more than he expects and he can't honestly think it's all for the love of the job. Yeah, he might think she's a workaholic and he might think she's still newish in town and that the fact people keep dying around her could keep her social circle small but he must know there is no way she could be this enamoured with her job. He's got to know that her social circle is small, that her love life is non existent, and she's not even slightly partnered up or looking to become such.

Apparently not.

"Come on," he's saying as he dodges around a man selling keyrings of the Statue of Liberty. "Karen Page must have a life outside the paper, even if it's a small one."

So he's being an ass, but a well-intentioned ass, and he's made the effort to celebrate her birthday when he could probably have a much nicer evening at home with actual unwatered beer in clean glasses. He could have been with people he liked and not her strange little crowd of misfits, all of whom are probably twenty years younger than he is. So she tells him about Foggy and Marci who may or may not be dating but are definitely screwing. About Claire who can't stay long because she has a date that she would like to be screwing.

"So Frank Castle isn't putting in appearance? Because I'd very much like to avoid being shot."

It's meant as a joke but it stops her dead in her tracks and a woman with a shopping cart full of kitchen towels walks into her, curses, then apologises and wanders off in the opposite direction.

It's not that she falls apart every time someone says his name. It's really not. It's just that some days - and today is one of them - she is a little overcome by how much things still hurt. Just because the hurt doesn't get worse doesn't mean it has got any better. No, she doesn't cry, she doesn't hole herself away anymore than she did before, she doesn't put her life on hold. But he's not part of her life now and it hurts when the people who are special to you are not. Whatever the reason may be. And she realises - and yes curses herself for it - that somewhere in those fantasies she had where he does indeed romance her and take her on dates and share himself with her, that spending special occasions like birthdays and Thanksgiving and Christmas with her was part and parcel of the package. She knows though, that even if he hadn't walked off her roof seemingly into the night air, that they are just fantasies after all.

"Oh come on Karen," Ellison is saying. "I was kidding."

Of course he was. Ellison doesn't know. Nobody does but it's times like this that she wonders if she's got "Frank Castle broke my heart" tattooed across her forehead. If she's so much more obvious than she thinks.

"Frank Castle is dead," she says and even saying those words, lies though she knows them to be, feels like poison in her mouth.

He looks at her like she's lost her mind, bushy eyebrows raised and lips pursed.

"Come on Page, I was born at night but it wasn't last night. Frank Castle is alive and you know it. Bet you've even seen him," he gives a knowing smile that's half mocking and half deadly serious. "Besides you and The Punisher, always been a thing. You sure know how to pick them."

He thinks he's being funny, smooth even. Which is a very silly thing for him to think. She knows he expects a capitulation, a half embarrassed smile, possibly even hoping that she'll spill the proverbial beans on what she knows, because he has to know that she knows _something_ , but he won't get it. He knows better than this, better than to play with this - he was there when she went through all this shit the first time around.

She doesn't look away. She doesn't smile. If she can outstare The Punisher, then Ellison is amateur hour. He seems to realise almost instantly that he's overstepped the mark. But to his credit, he lasts a few long moments before he holds up his hands.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. _Mea Culpa_. No Frank Castle," he looks away. "I'll stop giving you grief on your birthday, it's bad enough that you're spending it with me."

She nods. It's okay. She knows she's over-sensitive about this, that it's more about things he doesn't know than those he does and that his ribbing is just that: ribbing. He's a good person. Something of a pedant and stuck in his ways but he looks out for her and he cares. Genuinely. They start walking again, narrowly missing a kid racing by with a bright red ice-lolly which looked set to explode all over her skirt.

It's early yet but Josie's is packed by the time they arrive and through the window she can see Foggy is already there with Marci and has laid claim to a battered and probably filthy formica table next to the pool area. Marci, dressed like she thought she was going to a Broadway play rather than the biggest dive in the diviest part of town looks suitably uncomfortable and Foggy, bless his cotton socks, seems to be revelling in that.

Ellison pulls out a handkerchief, uses it to hold the door open for her.

"I'm glad I met you Page," he says as she steps inside. "I know you have a thing for brooding vigilantes but you've got integrity in spades and you're a fucking bulldog when it comes to a story. And you can actually write. I can count the number of journalists who can do that on one hand. Who knows what you'll do one day with that?"

She bites her lip. Her turn now for mock suspicion.

"You going soft on me Ellison?" she scoffs. "You know that's not what I signed up for."

He snorts, rolls his eyes and herds her inside into the heat, the noise and the overall general unpleasantness that is Josie's Bar and it feels like coming home.

She breathes in deeply. It smells. It always did. The less than faint odor of spilled beer and the industrial detergent than never quite covers that hint of vomit just below the surface. And sweat. _Oh God the sweat._ Old and stale and acrid.

It's easily the worst place in the Kitchen, probably New York. Maybe even the States. The broken seats, the rickety tables, the pool tables that don't have all their balls and the cues that give you splinters when you touch them. She doesn't care. Hell's Kitchen's seedy underbelly is not something that scares her any longer. She can't let it.

Foggy stands and waves them over, points a little too excitedly to a fishbowl in the middle of the table and she's pretty sure is meant to be less grey and more blue than it is, but she doesn't care. Next to her Ellison mutters something about E. coli and threatens her with a doctor's bill and a good-natured warning not to call in sick on Monday.

Not that she would. Not that she ever _has_.

She ignores him and picks her way through the crowd to Foggy, shoes already sticking to the floor, a fat biker at the bar checking out her ass and letting out a low whistle as she goes. She's about to say something when she sees it's Lou. Lou who is probably a more permanent fixture at Josie's than the toilets or possibly even the walls. He's whistled at her since the first ill-fated day she ever set foot in here and she guesses that unless he dies on his barstool (because nothing will convince her that isn't where he lives) he always will. She gives him a dry look and he raises his beer in her direction, takes a swig.

And then Foggy is holding out his arms and folding her into a giant bear hug, kissing her cheek and telling her she still looks great for such an ancient woman, asking if he can get her some hot cocoa and a blanket for her lap, a pair of slippers maybe. He calls her grandma and then whispers low in her ear that he's missed her and he's not comfortable only seeing her once every couple of months and on special occasions. And he's right. It _has_ been too long. She hasn't seen him, as in really _seen_ him and spoken to him since the night of the cocktail party, the night that Frank Castle danced with her on the roof and then pulled her heart out of her chest and wrung it out to dry in amongst the beer bottles and candy wrappers. Sure there was the time he came to fetch Matt from Claire but that wasn't exactly a social call. She knows why it's been so long. And sure, they both work. A lot. More than they should. But that's not it. It's because Foggy knows that she's keeping something from him and while he has never pressed, not truly, and while she knows that he's curious but happy to respect the boundaries she's put up regarding the night she spent with Frank in the Catskills, it feels wrong keeping secrets from him.

They haven't been good to each other. And they should. He's her rock. No matter what happens, no matter how bad things get, or how much she fucks up he's there. Complete with his special brand of Foggy advice and a good dose of salt. But there. And that means more than he'll ever know. She squeezes him tight before letting go and resolves to do better.

She says hi to Marci, asks how she is. They're friendly and despite the nastiness of their first few encounters they actually get on surprisingly well, but Marci's not the hugging type and it makes Karen wonder even more about her and Foggy and what odd and slightly off-kilter spark exists between them that keeps this all from falling apart. It's not _exactly_ friends with benefits but it kinda is. And yet, the idea of Foggy actually picking up the phone for a booty call is both the most wonderful and the most surprising thought she's ever had. It gets a spot on the list of Things Karen Page Wonders About But Doesn't Really Want To Know.

She sits. Ellison draws in beside her with a beer which he eyes as if he's holding a particularly, yappy, smelly dog and Foggy hands her a straw which he wipes off first on a tissue.

He shrugs. "Can't be too careful."

Ellison rolls his eyes.

"Speaking of being careful," Marci pipes up and leans across the table holding out a pink envelope and Foggy sighs, puts his head in his hands.

"She picked that," he says defensively. "I had no idea. I told her to go to the bookstore or the wine shop or the flower shop but she … does her own thing."

Karen doesn't miss the look that passes between them. It's fleeting but it's full of both exasperation and affection. She also doesn't miss that they're now giving combined gifts and she wonders how far down this path Foggy has gone and she feels bad that she hasn't really been around to witness it.

She hopes suddenly that Matt has. That despite Foggy's near constant (and overly dramatic) bellyaching about being the kid caught in the middle of a divorce that Matt has in some sense been there for him while he navigates his way through this. Because it's scary and wonderful but it can also hurt like a bitch.

She knows. Lord, she knows.

But not tonight. Tonight she's with friends, motley crew though they may be, and she's not going to let men in long black coats with blood on their hands change that. Tonight is hers.

Maybe.

She opens the envelope, slides out a plastic card, pale pink and red stripes, swooping lines of a V and S in gold.

"I buy all my underwear there," Marci is saying and Foggy turns bright red and buries his face in the fishbowl again. "Gives me something to show off."

She gives him a nudge. "Doesn't it?"

He nods without looking up from his drink. His earlier shyness now replaced by something more like casual interest and even a little guilt and Karen grins. Sure, this thing between them is a little weird but it's weird in all the right ways and Foggy doesn't seem remotely intimidated by it which is great.

She thanks them. It's a nice gift even if it's also a reminder that she doesn't really have anyone to show this kind of thing off to. But it doesn't matter. It never has.

She's about to brave the fishbowl when her phone vibrates, Claire's face popping up onto the screen.

"Ah Nurse Temple," Foggy says. "Tell her she's late. Tell her that if I'd had a medical emergency I would be dead right now."

The message is short and sweet. To the point. All a bit like Claire when she thinks about it. She reads it aloud. Claire can't make it. Her shift ran over and she needs to be across town for her date in an hour. She still has to change. She thinks her date might not think she looks her best in old scrubs but she'll see Karen tomorrow. Maybe. It depends on how the date goes.

Foggy gives her a sour look, grabs her phone and starts punching the keypad furiously.

"Don't be rude," she tells him and he makes a sound like she's just driven a knife through his heart.

"Sometimes it's like you don't know me at all Karen."

Marci leans forward, peeks over his shoulder, "He's telling her that he's bringing a whole fishbowl to her place and she's gotta down it. And that he's going to film it. Also he's using the poop emoji as much as he can."

Karen laughs, dips her straw into grayish liquid, takes a sip. As she expected it tastes like swill and somehow the jelly sweets in the bottom only serve to make it worse. But then again, she's more than a little surprised that anyone at Josie's had half a clue on what a fishbowl was in the first place, so she guesses she can't complain too much.

Ellison watches her as if she's drinking curdled milk out of the carton and she wonders if maybe that would be better.

It honestly can't be much worse.

But then there a few things that can make Josie's worse. To be fair it's never been shot up like a certain diner where the coffee is bad and the pie is good but she's willing to hazard a guess it's seen enough blood on the floor and the walls. Bar fights, smashed heads. Foggy once told her about a guy who had part of his ear bitten off in the bathroom and returned the next day to look for it. Worst part was, he found it.

"We really need to start going to better places," she says and next to her Ellison nods, sips his beer and then pulls a face like it bit him.

"Come on," Foggy hands her phone back, coughs dramatically as he takes a mouthful of the punch. "Thing about Josie's is that you know when you're here that things can't get worse. You go out somewhere nice and the food is bad or the wine is oxidised and your whole evening is ruined. Or maybe there's a rowdy kid or some douchebag waiter and you're done. With Josie's you know the drinks are watered down and you'll end up in the hospital with food poisoning, probably catch something from the toilet seat. Service is going to be shit because I think Josie pulls people off the streets, gives them an apron and calls them a bartender. But you know it. You know what to expect. It literally cannot get worse."

And because the universe is an evil bitch with a fucking sick sense of humour, he's proved wrong seconds later when the front door swings open and that unmistakable tap of Matt's cane sounds against the dirty, sticky floor.

She doesn't even have to turn to know for sure it's him. Somehow despite the noise, the smell, the overwhelming number of people already here, she has no doubt. Maybe he isn't the only one with superpowers. She snorts at that. Karen Page with superpowers, wouldn't that be a joke? Unless being catnip to vigilantes and the world's best list maker is some sought after talent, she's not really sure how much use she is to anyone.

And then he's at her side, tall and handsome, the smell of his cologne washing over her and for a second blocking out that unmistakable stench of Josie's Bar. He looks good. He obviously hasn't been running the streets much of late because he's not bruised and she can't see any discernible cuts or scrapes. He's dressed casually in dark jeans and a black Henley that fits him a little too well. And suddenly there's an ache in her chest. Not for what could have been. But for what they lost. For the lies and then the truths that didn't make up for it. For the night they sat under the bright lanterns in a bad Thai restaurant and laughed. For the way he kissed her on the steps of her building and declined to come upstairs because he was so sure he was going to ruin it. And then he did.

She doesn't love him. She could have once. She came close. But she doesn't now. Apparently when she has to choose between darkness and light, she'll choose darkness. And Matt wasn't exactly light to begin with so she's not really sure where that leaves her. There are things Karen Page doesn't even bother to categorise because it's simply too hard to go there.

"Hey," he says.

"Dick move bro," Foggy mutters under his breath, but Matt hears. Of course he does because he has fucking bat ears or something and if you can't hide an elevated pulse or a raspy lung from a cold you had over a month ago, you're not going to be able to hide actual spoken words in his presence. But then again, she doesn't think that was Foggy's intention.

Matt sighs and has the decency to look sheepish and she's suddenly extremely grateful for the hubbub in the rest of the bar, that even though the tension that's descended over their little table - which she is pretty sure even Ellison and Marci have picked up on - is at least being partially drowned out by the noise.

"I'm not staying," Matt says and then he turns to her and even though she knows he can't see anything, it feels like he's scrutinising her. "I just wanted to wish you, and give you this."

He holds out a flat rectangular package wrapped in brightly coloured polka dot paper and tied with blue foil bows. She kind of hates him for this. For his sweetness, for this strangely oblivious manipulation. For the fact that it's not really like that but feels like it is.

She takes it from him and he holds on a second too long.

"The woman at the store said the paper was nice," he says. Shrugs awkwardly.

"It is."

"Anyway," he breathes in deeply, seems to gather himself together as he turns towards the door. "I just wanted to say happy birthday Karen."

He nods to everyone else, "Foggy, Marci, Mitchell. Have a good night."

She bites her lip, looks down at the gift, then at Foggy who's not even bothering to apologise for his friend. He shakes his head and she can hear him screaming silently at her to just let it go, to not open that specific can of worms again. That this is best left where it is. In the ether.

Karen Page has never done a sensible thing in her life.

"Matt," she says and he turns towards her and she doesn't need to see his face to know that his expression is something between hope and fear.

And she really doesn't want to do this, because this is a really, really bad idea and she wishes that she'd never met one vigilante, let alone two. But she says it anyway.

"Matt. Stay. Have a drink."

And he does.

xxx

To be fair, it's not as awkward as she thinks it should be. Matt keeps his distance, sitting close to Foggy and listening to him bellyache over Claire's absence. Ellison, true to his word, doesn't mention Frank and steers the conversation away from Smirnov when Marci mentions him citing that it's not the time for talking shop. Either of their respective shops. They talk a little about Ben, however, have a few drinks on him, and Fisk comes up once or twice when Matt mentions that he still keeps tabs on Vanessa who's seemingly still living it up in Italy. But overall it's pleasant.

She doesn't drink much. The beer is indeed watered down and when Foggy starts calling for shots, she begs off. Not that she thinks she'd die from alcohol poisoning at Josie's because that would require that they actually served alcohol but in her experience, shots of any type have never been a good idea. Under any circumstances.

She tells herself that she needs her head but she has no idea what for. Her weekend is free save for a tentative arrangement with Claire and the most exciting thing she might do is take a walk in the park and try and sneak some cat food past Irene.

Karen Page. Living on the edge.

It's late when Ellison eventually leaves. Despite his bitching about the beer, he's put away a few bottles and he calls a cab, tells Karen that he'll see her on Monday. Or not. He could be dead. The beer might kill him. And if that doesn't then the E. coli most definitely will.

He kisses her cheek, claps Foggy on the back as he passes him and Marci at the pool table where Foggy is showing off his apparent lack of coordination skills, and disappears onto the street, holding a newspaper over his head as the first few drops of rain start to fall.

And then it's only her and Matt. And she knew it was going to come to this. One day. It had to. And it's honestly not as terrible as she thought it would be. There's a lot of water under the bridge and she has secrets now that she's not sure she'll ever share, but maybe it doesn't have to be that way. Maybe it doesn't have to be brutal honesty and truth that breaks them both. Maybe it can just be.

"Long time," he says taking a sip of his beer. "Well at least since we spoke."

And she knows he's talking about that night at Claire's. She wonders how much he remembers, if anything.

She nods, realises he can't see her but doesn't say anything. She's pretty sure Matt knows when someone is nodding. Probably can tell by the smell of her hair or the disturbance in the air as she moves. Or he just knows because he knows.

He gives her a smile. It's smooth and easy and she suspects it's got him both out of and into a lot of scrapes during his life.

"Thanks for asking me to stay," he says, "I've missed hanging out like this."

"Me too."

It's the truth, he'd know if it wasn't anyway.

He nods, swallows another mouthful of beer. She can see his edging around this. That he's going to move in soon, ask her about all the things she can't tell him. Beg her to forgive him. Like she hasn't already. They've been here before. Standing next to Frank's truck while he ground his teeth over the sound of Matt's voice.

Sweet nothings in her ear which were just that.

She can't do it again. It's not that she's angry. Despite her apparent animal magnetism when it comes to Hell's Kitchen's criminal and not so criminal element, she's not all that upset about Matt keeping things from her. She guesses it even makes sense. It's probably not wise to advertise your secret identity all over town if you're trying to keep it secret.

But she's come to realise that maybe there's a difference between secrets and lies. There can be at least.

So no, it's not so much that he hides things, it's the fact that he's so smooth and adept at lying to cover them up, that it comes so very naturally to him and seemingly doesn't touch him. It's the fact that even after he revealed his biggest secrets to her she's pretty sure she knows less about him than before. It's about how his code, simple as it may be, has yet to account for a scared woman tied to a chair and having her world threatened and seeing a .308 as the only way to save it. That he sees himself at one end of a spectrum and Frank Castle at the other and that he has yet to even consider that she might fall somewhere in the middle and not directly at his side.

"Lets walk," she says, standing. "I'll give you a lift home."

"You don't have to do that," he says but he downs his beer and pulls himself to his feet, reaches for his cane. And she hates that that's also a lie and a terrible truth. It's not that she wants him to be blind, that she doesn't wish he could see everything she can. It's not that she wishes he didn't have this ability to not let his blindness render him sightless. But it's this manufactured persona he has. This man who dupes everyone he meets.

She told Frank once that Matt lies to people, that he hurts people. And that hasn't changed. It's just that now Frank's position on the list of People Who Lie And Hurt is no longer as comfortable as it once was. And maybe that's not really fair. Hurt yes, but lies not so much. Not actual verbal untruths. Maybe one, when he told he wouldn't take up any of her time, and another when he told her she'd forget about him. But when she thinks about Frank and lies, she doesn't harp on these things because they're small and inconsequential. She harps on the biggest lie of all, and that's what he seems to be telling himself. That she can't love him, that he doesn't deserve this, that he needs to suffer.

And she wishes again she could just find that ordinary man to be an ordinary husband and an ordinary father to those wonderful but ordinary potential children, but some things are not written in the stars and she'd be willing to bet that's one of them.

Foggy raises his eyebrows as they leave but she shakes her head. It's not like that. She's just taking him home. Yes, she knows they can all get a cab but it's anyone's guess how long this game of pool is going to take. Yes, she'll call. They can do something in the week. They need to talk. She's missed him. Maybe a better venue.

Hugs all round. Even Marci. And Foggy looking fierce and poking his finger into Matt's chest, gritting something out that she can't hear but doesn't need to.

It'll be okay. He won't be stuck in the midst of a custody battle again. Whatever he thinks might happen isn't. That's over now. Better luck next time.

Outside it's cool and even though the rain has stopped for now, she can smell it in the air. The streets are quieter although there are rowdy kids drinking in the alleys and police cars cruising slowly up and down the streets, prostitutes hiding in the shadows until they've past.

Matt offers his arm but she declines. He doesn't need her to lead him, to see.

And they walk. Slowly. Her heels are high and the night air is welcoming and heady and despite everything, she doesn't feel the need to rush this.

He speaks first. She knew he would.

"Tonight was nice," he says, he sounds wistful. "Like old times."

She doesn't answer. It was nice, but it wasn't like old times.

"I've missed you," he means it, even he couldn't fake the sincerity in his voice. "I know you think there's something going on with Elektra but there's -"

"Don't," she says. "Please, I don't want to talk about this. Don't ruin this."

The truth is she doesn't really wonder much about his relationship with Elektra. That's something she has successfully kept off every list and out of her mind for the most part. She knows there's history, she knows there was a deep attraction, maybe even love. And she knows that on some level maybe both of them are hoping to recapture that and that he does by dropping literally every responsibility he has when Elektra asks. And that's fine. She accepts it and it doesn't hurt. But she's not going to be an emotional sounding board for this.

( _Red still loves you_ )

She closes her eyes. Let's the feeling pass. Takes a breath. Carries on walking.

"Karen, I'm just sorry. I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I kept things from you. I'm sorry that you can't even stand to be in the same room as me now," he means it. She can see the worry on his face, the way he's throwing pieces of himself behind every word, hoping she'll catch them, put them back together.

He pauses. "I know I can't turn back the clock but I just want to go back you know? To a time when it was you, me and Foggy. Before Fisk and Elektra. Before Frank Castle and all the shit that happened."

She sighs. She doesn't know what to say. She forgives him. Always has. No matter how much water there is under the bridge, Matt will always be special to her. He'll always be the person who believed in her, who gave her a chance, was her friend in a place where friendship was hard to find and often not worth the search.

But it doesn't matter. They can't go back and she doesn't want to. Things have changed and so has she.

"Can't change the past Matt," she says. "Can only go forward."

"Can we Karen?" he asks. "Go forward?"

She turns to him, takes him by the shoulders. Looking into his eyes is pointless but she does it anyway. It's important. Truth is important. It's not hard to find the words. There are no butterflies. This is simple. As simple as falling down. "I think that part of what we were is over."

He nods. Maybe he doesn't get all of it but he gets enough.

She lets him take her arm this time and they walk in silence for a few minutes and she can feel the prickles of rain on her skin. It's not exactly warm yet, not a time to be considering a sundress or a hula skirt. Or a bikini. But there's a definite mugginess to the air, a hint of humidity which she despises more than the sub zero winters or the hot as hell summers.

"Have you seen Frank?" he asks suddenly and she almost stops. "You know, since that day he dropped you off?"

There's a couple of things she could do. She could say no and he would know she's lying. It would likely only serve to make him more determined to uncover the truth and by extension the reason she lied.

She could refuse to answer, change the subject which would have much the same effect.

Or she could be honest.

And that's important.

"Yes," she says softly, and let him do whatever the fuck he wants with her elevated heartbeat and additional pheromones. She's human. She can't live worrying about whether he can smell her feelings on her, whether the cadence of her voice gives her away.

She tells him that Frank stopped by a month or so ago. That he turned up on her fire escape to say hello. She doesn't tell him about the fireworks, about the dancing. About Frank's knee between hers and the blood he smeared on her face and dress.

He'll know she's not telling him everything but then again he's not entitled to all her secrets. Just because he knows they're there doesn't mean he gets a free pass.

But he seems to gloss over it. It doesn't seem to register on his radar and he carries on walking, arm linked through hers, cane hanging loosely at his side.

"That night," he says and he doesn't need to specify which one. "I let The Punisher take you and I wasn't even worried. I wonder if that makes me an idiot or a good judge of character."

So she's a little pissed by his phrasing. More so when she thinks of the look on Frank's face the next day like he'd just put her back where she belonged - in Matt's arms - like she's some kind of trinket to be handed off to whoever can look after her best at the time. But she gets what he's saying nonetheless. Worries less about the subtext and more about the spirit of it.

He's talking to himself more than to her now anyway and for now she's content to be along for the ride.

"I mean I don't know how many people he's killed now. Probably dozens. But, I don't think he's a bad man. He loved his family," he pauses. "He wouldn't hurt you."

He says it with such finality, such surety that she wants to shove him. In part because he's Matt and has a tendency to talk about things he's not qualified to talk about. In part because he still hasn't realised how fucking self-righteous he sounds. And mostly because it's a lie. And he's wrong. And Frank Castle has already hurt her.

 _(I can't bring this to you)_

She doesn't say anything. She can see her car, and she's grateful that the time left for this conversation is at least limited. Sure the thought of being in a confined space with Matt while he waxes lyrical about Frank or whoever else is hardly something she's looking forward to, but the sooner it starts, the sooner it's done.

"Where did you go that night?" he asks as she extracts herself from him, pulls her keys out of her purse. "Foggy and I were looking everywhere for you."

"You know I'm not gonna tell you that."

He smiles back. "Yeah I know. Karen Page, loyal to a fault."

She pulls the car door open, leans across the seat to unlock the passenger door and Matt slides in beside her.

She sighs, grins at him even though he can't see it and turns the key in the ignition and the whole night changes.

Sometimes things happen in life that you don't expect. That's just one of the features and the bugs of living in this big wide world with endless possibilities. You go to the store and fall in love, you find a new job and move countries, a cat walks in off your fire escape and suddenly your life is less lonely than it was the day before. And all this is fine. Truly, how boring would life be if it was all planned out?

But then there are things that knock you sideways. Things that you just don't ever expect and it seems like the universe has actually had to conspire, gain some kind of sentience, for it to happen. Things like finding out the man you thought you were in love with, who also happens to be your boss, is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, that you can shoot someone seven times at point blank range and know full well you'd do it again. That Frank Castle is out there and he's alive and he wants you to know it after all this time.

 _You're a shining star_  
 _No matter who you are_  
 _Shining bright to see  
_ _Whatever you could truly be_

She wants to say she was startled but that's not the truth. Startled to her implies that she jumped or yelled. That that heart rate of hers she's so worried about Matt hearing skyrocketed, and she started hyperventilating. But none of these things happened.

She freezes, everything locking up. Her mind, her limbs, her throat. Dimly she's aware that Matt is saying something about her musical tastes not being up to scratch and she wonders insanely if she left the tape on this morning. If she's gotten to that point that she's so pathetically needy that she'll listen to trash like this just to keep the memories alive.

But she didn't. She might be sad. She might miss Frank more than he deserves and she might find her own desire for him a little disconcerting but she knows this isn't her. That this was him and he's been here at her car tonight. That he's trying to tell her something and she has no idea what.

"Karen?"

Matt. He's still talking but he no longer has that easy smile on his face. He's no longer teasing her about bad music. In fact he looks downright concerned, far more than he should be about bad music.

And that's what snaps her out of it. Say what you want about Matt, his instincts are top notch and if he's worried, there generally _is_ something to be worried about. She presses the eject button and the cassette pops out with an audible click that echoes through the car.

"Karen are you hurt?"

She glances at him. Hurt? Why would he think she was hurt? They were just talking and she was fine. And then Frank made his presence known and they weren't and she doesn't know what he thought happened in between.

Hurt? No. No. She's fine. She's not even tipsy.

She shakes her head, remembers he can't see her, tells him no and his expression doesn't change.

"There's blood in this car," he says. "Can't you smell it?"

No, she can't but that doesn't mean it's not there. And that in turn means that unless someone is playing a very cruel joke on her and happens to know things about her and Frank that no one on earth could possibly know, that Frank is out there somewhere and he's hurt and bleeding.

She reaches up, flicks on the interior light, scans the dash and the steering wheel. There's a dark red smear on the radio, another on the steering wheel, more on her upholstery and she's sure she has it on her clothes now. Another arc against her window and a handprint on the side mirror.

"Oh God," she whispers.

Next to her Matt is twisting in his seat. He's saying her name and something about going to the police. Asking questions that she knows the answers to but can't tell him, won't tell him. And all she can see is the blood, already brown and congealed and oh God, how long does blood take to do that? How long ago was he here and where is he now? How far could he have gone?

She looks out onto the street, wonders if she'd be able to track blood from her car but that seems ridiculous, even if she had Matt to help, which she won't. But it's started to rain a bit harder now and she doubts she'd be able to see anything.

She curses and Matt's fingers close around her arm.

"Karen, what is going on?"

His voice is level. Steely calm. And when she looks at him she wonders how she could have ever not known that he was the Devil. That she could have ever not seen that square jaw and downturned lips and have even for one second not known it was him. How she could have heard his voice and not found that self-righteous tone, that hint of superiority.

But then again, she didn't know that Frank was falling in love with her. That those days spent at his bedside and the nights drinking bad coffee were leading to something else. Not that he knew either - not at the time - and maybe that's why she missed it.

Karen Page. None so blind.

She takes a breath. She can do this. She's allowed secrets. Even from Matt. Especially from Matt.

She turns to him, rips her eyes away from the smeared blood and the smell of death in her car.

"I'm going to take you home," and her voice is amazingly level and clear and when he starts shaking his head she carries on without paying him heed. "I am going to take you home Matt. And I am going to leave you there and you are not going to follow me. You are not going to come to my apartment and you are not going to try and find out what's going on."

"Karen-"

"No," she pulls her arm out of his grip. "Matt. I am asking you to do this for me. If you don't I'll know and then everything that's happened tonight is for nothing."

She waits for him to get her meaning, even though every second that ticks by feels hours, every minute like another nail in Frank's coffin. But she holds out, waits to see that he gets it, that he accepts it. She's so tired of this, weary to her core that she has to guard herself like this from him.

He sets his mouth in a thin line, makes a sound in the back of his throat that sounds both unsure and angry, swallows heavily.

"Are you in danger?" he asks and she's 100% truthful when she tells him she isn't. That she's safe and that no one is trying to hurt her. At least not in the capacity that he thinks.

Frank would never knowingly bring danger to her door. He'd rather bleed out in the streets, she knows this. If he's looking for her, needing her help, he's doing it only because he knows she'll be safe.

He sits back in the seat and suddenly she's pissed that they are even having this conversation. He's not her protector, her husband, her father. He's a man she once kissed on her front step under some fairy lights. He's a man she hasn't had a proper conversation with for more than six months. And that conversation involved mostly him and his apologies and her sending him packing out of her front door. So yeah, it's sweet and all that he's so worried about her and that he doesn't want anything bad to happen to her, but she's not asking permission.

She doesn't wait for his answer, for him to make some sage decision about what he thinks is best for her. She pulls out into the road, heads east towards his apartment, driving faster than she should. She has no doubt he can smell the particular brand of her anxiety, can feel her shaking next to him but she doesn't care. And all the time she's looking, staring into dark alleys and shadowed alcoves, looking for any sign of him. Anything at all.

But there's nothing and she doesn't know what she expected. The Punisher thumbing a lift on the roadside?

When she stops outside his apartment block, Matt turns to her and he sucks in breath like he's about to say something but she cuts him off.

"Please Matt, don't make me regret this," she says and he chews on the inside of his lip, tilts his head slightly. "Please, just do this for me."

It seems to take a long time for him to say anything but she waits him out even though she wants to toss him out the car. And she doesn't think it's really more than a few seconds.

"I won't follow you," he says slowly and she can hear how hard this is for him to say, to accept. "But you need to promise me you'll call me when you get home. If I haven't heard from you by 2 am, I'm coming okay?"

She wants to object, wants to tell him he can take 2 am and shove it up his ass but she needs to get out of here and the truth is maybe it is the least she could do to help alleviate his fears. Being worried for her isn't the worst thing in the world. And she gets it. It's hard being away from those you love and just because they don't love you back doesn't make it any easier.

"Okay," she says. "2 am."

He nods once. Short. Sharp. Touches her arm gently and gets out of the car.

"Goodnight Karen. Be safe."

She's relieved to be alone as she pulls away. That she can curse and shake and let the tears come if that is what they are planning to do. That she can say his name aloud and shout at him and there's no one to hear it.

She heads to her apartment block, unable to fathom where else he would have gone. He _has_ to know she moved - that's not the type of thing to have escaped his notice even if he never intended to see her again - but oh God, what if he doesn't? What if he's pulled himself to the seventh floor of her old building? Or frightened Howard? What if he's back at the diner? Or the docks? What if he decided this was too much and actually went to go and find some real help, someone who actually could stitch him back together? How can she find him then?

She shakes her head. This isn't helping. _She_ isn't helping. He wanted her to find him, so he'll go somewhere she'll go too. Although why the hell he didn't stay by her car is a fucking mystery to her.

"Damn you Frank," she whispers as she turns into her road. "Damn you."

Her apartment block looks the same as always from the outside. A gloomy building standing tall against the night sky, the foyer illuminated and Irene behind the desk staring at the door with an expression like curdled milk. But then again what would be different? A banner across the front with Frank's name on it and an arrow? A radio announcement blaring from the roof about where The Punisher can be found? Irene rushing out to tell her there's a thickset man waiting for her and she just casually let him in, never you mind?

She tells herself to stop. This isn't helping. She knows that this is just her brain's way of trying to cope, of trying to find some light and easy way to deal with, but this isn't light and easy. This is really fucking serious and all it's doing is distracting her from the task at hand.

She breaks it down. Step one: find Frank. Step two: who the fuck knows?

She gets out of her car, crosses the street and has no idea where to go next. He could literally be anywhere and she has yet to figure out a good reason why it should be here, other than he would have known she was going to come here eventually. Which means he walked from her car. Which means he's a fucking idiot.

She slips through the chainlink fence that leads to the alley behind the building. Irene would probably have kittens if she saw that but Karen can't bring herself to care. Having kittens would be violating the no pets policy anyway and then they'd have something in common.

 _Fuck it Karen, stop it._

She shakes her head as she makes her way through some scrubby grass to the back of the building. These racing thoughts are never helpful and they always seem to pop up at the worst times imaginable. On some level she gets that this is how she processes stress. With humour and sarcasm, a decent amount of self-deprecation. But she doesn't have time for that now. She needs to find Frank. Wherever the fuck he may be.

She calls his name softly as she walks but all she does is startle some teenagers smoking and making out behind the dumpster. They give her guilty looks and grumble as they walk away flicking their cigarette butts into the long grass.

She ignores them, walks a little further, scanning the ground for blood, for tracks, for him. But he's not there and she can feel the panic starting to gnaw at her, settling in like an evil little demon that moves slowly but methodically through her veins, little starbursts of fear and frustration shooting through her with every step.

She calls for him again. Let him be here, oh God, let him know to have come here. Let him not be trying to climb a seven floor fire escape at her old place. He must know, he has to.

She stands for a moment, surveying the no man's land around her. The bins, the cracked flagstones and the inappropriately cheerful yellow weeds growing through them, a few old broken benches. This was once a yard, she's sure that before the recession hit in 2008 it was probably quite nice. Maintained for residents, a place kids could play and mom's could gossip. But now it looks like a concrete wasteland, ugly and lifeless, stinking of garbage and part of her hopes he isn't here. That he hasn't come here to die in the stench of the trash. No matter who he is or what he's done he deserves better than that.

She shakes the thought away. He's not dead and she's being overly dramatic.

"Come on Frank," she says to the gloom. "It's been a long day."

And then she hears the sound of a boot scraping on metal, the whisper of wind against leather. It lifts her hair, brings her the smell of blood, the acrid stench of sweat and dirt and she follows it around the corner, over a low and rotten wooden fence.

He's sitting on the bottom step of the fire escape, gathered back into the shadows, hunched over and shaking so badly that even in the low light, she can see the vibration of his shoulders, the way his hand trembles on the railing.

The universe gives her a moment for relief. A second to feel that elation that she's found him now and everything will be okay. He's there and he's alive and he might look more like shadow than man, but none of that matters because they're occupying the same space at the same time and whatever happened she can fix it.

And then she sees him pitch to the side, spit blood onto the ground

And the moment is gone.

She runs.

She stops caring about her high heels and her sore feet, her pencil skirt that's a little too narrow to allow for big strides. He's here. He's alive. For how long she doesn't know but she intends to make sure it's a while yet. This _isn't_ the universe righting the wrong that is Frank Castle. She won't let it be.

The moon moves out from behind a cloud as she draws near, throwing everything into stark relief and shining on him, his coat, his hair, the black pool of blood at his side.

She hunkers down in front of him, skinning her knees and barely noticing the pain. Her heart beating in her chest like a little bird's and then sinking low into her belly as she surveys the damage.

"Frank," she says softly touching his face, feeling the hot stickiness of his blood as she does. "Frank."

He lifts his head slightly, seems to have to throw a lot of effort into focusing on her. His pupils are huge, devouring his eyes and his face is whiter than the skull on his chest. He looks terrible. Worse than when she saw him for the first time chained to that hospital bed. Worse than when he took her out for coffee and killed two men in front of her. His eyes are puffy and there's a nasty gash on his cheek, bruises on his jaw. His clothes are ripped, the coat's arm almost hanging clean off, the shirt down the middle and even in the dim light she can see blood seeping into the material, staining the faded cotton and turning the skull on his chest from a dirty white to a brownish red.

"Ma'am," he says looking at her like he's only just recognised her, and a strangely pained smile crosses his face. "Ma'am, I think I fucked up."

"It's okay," she says. "It's okay."

It's not, but it has to be. This is not her life. This is not her birthday. She is not done.

He shakes his head, pulls his coat open and she can see his left side is in tatters, the shirt torn down to threads and blood oozing thick and red from slashes in his side.

She claps a hand over her mouth.

"Sorry," he rasps.

"It's okay," she says again like it will magically be if she just keeps saying it. "Don't try to talk."

He shakes his head, spits more blood onto the concrete, let's go of the railing and lets his hand fall to her shoulder, smallest softest squeeze which is nothing like him at all. He always holds on tight. That night at the cabin she felt like he was holding himself back not to crush her ribs and when he held her on the roof it was like he was trying to bind himself into her, make them part of the same body. And now this. This weak grasp that seems like some kind of final insult. This isn't how he touches. This isn't how he holds on.

"Wanted to see you…" he grits out. "Say… say good-"

"Stop it," she says and despite his obvious distress he manages to look like she's just given him a beating on top of the one he's just had. "You are not fucking dying on me Frank Castle."

And she realises that this is when step two of the plan is supposed to kick in. The one that she labelled "who the fuck knows" and hoped that by the time step one was finished someone would.

She has nothing. Literally nothing.

But she's not leaving him here to die. She won't.

"Can you stand?" she asks and he looks at her like she's asked him to do a jig and fly to Mars.

He starts to shake his head but she's grabbing his hands and hauling him to his feet, pulling him out of the shadows, which seem to cling to him, reluctant to give up their hold. And she doesn't think about how the last time she did this they danced on the roof and she told him she knew. Because she did. Because they both did.

"Come on you son of a bitch," she says as she shoves her shoulder underneath his arm. "You are not fucking dying on my birthday. You are not giving me that."

He groans, grabs at his side, like he's trying to hold himself together, grips at her clothes, his movements clumsy and awkward as he loses his balance and she has to bear his full weight for a second as he finds it again.

He's big. He's heavy. He could crush her like a bug and she's already breathless.

He staggers, turns to her and grabs at her hip and she throws an arm across his belly, rams her shoulder into him again so that he's pushed upright. He winces, takes a shuddering breath that she thinks is only shuddering because he can't scream. But he stands.

He stands.

Because she won't let him fall. She won't do to him what he did to her. She can be better than that. They both can.

He's saying something about not going to a hospital and she tells him to shut up. She's handling this, because he - big man baby that he is - can't. Because he did not fucking come to her to die on her birthday. He came to live and she can make that happen.

Because she owes him and when he walks out of here as good as new, she'll know she's at least one third of the way out of her debt.

 _Fuck you Frank. Fuck you._

She half stumbles, half drags him to the door of her building and Irene is already looking up from her desk, half moon glasses on the edge of her nose and her mouth pulled into that grimace that makes her look permanently offended.

"Frank," she says and she doesn't really know how much he can comprehend, let alone hear. "Frank, you need to take my lead on this. Don't look up okay."

She thinks he nods, can't be sure but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be on his feet for much longer and if he falls over there won't be much of a farce to hold on to either way. And she's praying her own legs don't buckle, because he's dead weight and she's not cut out to be keeping musclebound vigilantes standing. Except apparently, she is.

She pulls his coat closed, slides a hand around the back of his neck, wincing as she feels blood and scabs against her palm, and pulls his head down to her shoulder, fumbles at his waist. He's already grabbing at her, bunching the fabric of her blouse between his fingers in an attempt to stay standing. So there's that. He gets it. On some level.

She drags him close, lips to his temple and pushes the door open with her foot, let's out a giggle that she hopes sounds less fake than she thinks it does and steers him towards the lift, aware that Irene's gaze is drilling a hole into her back.

"Yes Baby," she says and can't honestly believe how ridiculous it sounds to be called The Punisher "Baby" or any term of endearment really. "Those shots were _such_ a bad idea."

His hand slips from her back and she grabs at it, pulls it back and holds him there, staggering under his weight. She can see he won't last long, his knees already buckling and if Irene decides she needs to assist, then all bets are off.

She presses the button for the lift, hopes she doesn't smear any blood on the wall, giggles again, lets out her best approximation of an airheaded shriek.

"Stop it," she says and hears him grunt questioningly into her neck. "Just wait until we get upstairs. We're almost there."

She glances over her shoulder at Irene who is staring at them tight-lipped. She gives her what she hopes is something between a naughty and conspiratorial smile. It really doesn't matter what this woman thinks about her comings and goings. Or who she has them with. Irene seems to have already made up her mind about literally every unattached woman in the block and that's her thing. She guesses if she's now filed away as "Karen Page, sluttiest slut to ever slut, slutting it up in her apartment" it makes very little difference.

She kisses his cheek, makes some more wildly inappropriate comments, as the bell for the lift chimes and she maneuvers him through the doors, giggling like an idiot as she does.

"Come on," she laughs again, shouts goodnight to Irene and sees the older woman roll her eyes as she presses the button for the fifth floor and wedges herself against him as the doors shut.

He groans again, grasps weakly at her and it makes her want to cry that somehow he's been reduced to this. This man who has literally beaten death and flipped off the world now this boneless mess that can barely stand. The man who held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe and didn't much care if she did, now looking to her to keep him upright, to be the strength that once flowed in his veins.

"It's gonna be okay Frank," she says again. "You're gonna be fine."

She won't let that be a lie. She won't.

He mumbles something when the lift reaches her floor but she shushes him, drags him out of the lift and down the corridor to her door, fumbles for her keys and hauls him inside. She's finally caving under his weight and he seems to understand this and reaches for the wall, bloody handprint smearing against the cream paintwork like a sigil, a sign for the Lord not to come and take the first born son. She grits her teeth, This is ridiculous.

 _She_ is ridiculous.

She kicks the door closed as Pickle comes charging out of the shadows like a small ball of rage and ferocity, meowing loudly and aggressively attacking the side of the couch, which is usually a sign she thinks she's been left alone for too long.

Karen ignores her.

"Come on Frank," she says as she pulls his coat off, lets it fall into a bloodied heap on her floor and then herds him towards the bed, pushes him down on his ass. He lets out a shuddering breath and looks up at her blinking rapidly, like he's completely unsure why he's here and who she is or what she's doing.

She berated herself once for imagining they were on a collision course headed directly to her bedroom and look how far they've come?

The universe aka High Bitch of Cruel Jokes.

She shakes the thought away.

He's swaying a little again, looking ready to pitch forward and she knows if he falls she will never get him up again, so she shoves him backwards, hauls his legs up so he's lying diagonally across the bed. He's bleeding into her sheets, staining the white fabric red and he's starting to shiver even though her apartment feels unbearably hot to her.

"Frank," she whispers. "Frank stay with me okay? Stay with me."

She grabs her phone. Punches a few keys and dials Claire. Listens to it ring and ring and go to voicemail, screams a garbled message into the receiver and calls again, let's it ring as she grabs a blanket off the couch and covers him with it, touches his face to make sure he's still awake.

Voicemail.

This isn't happening. This cannot be happening.

But it might be. It really might.

She looks at her phone, blue light shining cheerfully in the dark room and sighs.

Fuck it.

She's getting ready to punch 911 into the keypad when suddenly Claire's face appears on the display and she's so relieved that part of her wants to let herself have a good cry before she answers it. It feels like a remarkable achievement when she doesn't.

And then she babbling to Claire about what's happening, about the mostly dead man in her apartment and how she has to save him and she has no idea what to do and Claire is telling her that she's on her way, to keep pressure on the wound, to elevate his head and talk to him and keep him awake, keep him warm. Stop him going into shock.

She'll come, she'll be there.

 _You can do this Karen. You_ can _._

And she does. She drops her phone, kicks off her shoes and climbs on her bed, towel in her hands. She pulls his head awkwardly into her lap and tells herself not to think about how cold he feels, nor how much he's shaking. She reaches down to press on the wounds on his side and he moans aloud but doesn't try and stop her.

And when Pickle, seemingly having worked her passive aggression out on the couch, jumps up and curls at her side, she's never been so grateful for the day the cat walked into her life and her heart.

That's how she stays until Claire arrives, holding him, trying to stop his bleeding with her hands, talking soft and low and mostly nonsense save for one unassailable truth.

"I'm holding on Frank. I'm not going to let you go."


	4. All I can breathe is your life

**Okay so, here is chapter two of this extended interlude. It is unlikely I will update this fast again, but as I left the last chapter in a bit of a cruel place I had decided I would post them in quick succession.**

 **I have a rather lofty and well, frankly fanciful goal of finishing the entire part three of this series by the end of the month. This is because September will see me completely out of commission until about the 23rd because of an enormous work project.**

 **This is however very pie in the sky and I don't think it will be possible especially as I seem incapable of writing short chapters (and also for the most part don't like to), but I am going to try. I have a portion of the next chapter written so if nothing else I am hoping that can be up in the next little while. But the chapter after that is probably going to take a little longer because, well you'll see when we get there. Suffice to say I have never really written anything like I am planning for chapter 4 so I have no idea how long it might take me.**

 **So, let's find out what happens to Frank shall we?**

 **Title is from Iris by Goo Goo Dolls. Come on you had to know they were going to show up.**

* * *

She washes his blood off in the shower.

There's a lot of it. Apparently not as much as she thought, but a lot. Too much. It's in her hair and on her skin, trapped under her nails. She struggles. It's sticky and it clings to her much like he couldn't, and she has to use a nailbrush to scrape at it, to turn her skin almost as pink as the water swirling around the plug and ebbing away.

She doesn't think her clothes will make it, her white blouse bloodied and torn, grey pinstripe skirt equally ruined. No matter though. They fell in the line of duty to a good cause. That of saving Frank Castle's life. It's a small price to pay. Insignificant even.

He's always getting blood on her anyway and she doesn't care. She _can't_. He didn't want to bring this to her and he did and it's done now. There's no going back.

Her skinned knees sting under the spray as she rinses off the last of the soap. They _were_ worse than she thought and she's bleeding and bloody like a child that fell playing hide-and-seek in a school playground, cried for her mother and then got her scrapes painted with hydrogen peroxide by a severe school nurse, too old and jaded to care about childish mishaps.

She doesn't have any hydrogen peroxide but she does have crumpled tube of antiseptic cream somewhere and that'll have to do. It's not high on her list of priorities now. In fact her actual priorities are not even making that cut at the moment.

She turns off the water and steps out of the shower, grabs a towel and wraps it around herself. She stands for a minute dripping onto the bath mat and staring at the garish turquoise tiles on the floor, the strange shell mosaic on the wall that someone, once upon a time, must have thought looked cheerful and fun. If she's honest it does lift her spirits a bit, but then after tonight her baseline is not exactly high.

Or maybe it is. He is, after all, alive. He is stable. She thinks that's pretty fucking fantastic all on its own.

He's also mostly naked and in her bed too. The universe has a pretty fucking sick sense of humour.

She dries herself, dabs at her legs with some gauze. It stings again, makes her catch her breath as she presses down, and then retreats in a blissful rush of endorphins. She's going to have to wear pants for the next little while. She draws the line at plasters on her knees, especially as the last time she bought them, the pharmacy was only stocking kids' ones and her choices were _Beauty and the Beast_ or _Mickey Mouse_. That seems a step too far. She is, after all, a grown-ass woman. She's had a birthday and everything to prove it.

But then again, she also has skinned knees, and her pajamas, neatly folded on the toilet, is a pair of purple check flannel bottoms and a matching tank top with a sleepy looking white daisy on it. It even says "Sweet Dreams" and, after tonight, maybe that's the biggest joke of all.

It's also not exactly how she imagined dressing when Frank Castle was in her bed for the first time inasmuch as she ever let herself imagine it in any real capacity. But as she already said, the universe is playing a pretty sick game tonight and she's not convinced that she's won yet. She's not going to let a narcoleptic flower be the deciding factor.

Right now, Claire's with him. Claire, dressed up to the nines, cutting her date short to rush back to Hell's Kitchen and save a man she probably shouldn't. She says he'll be okay. Says that while he's been stabbed with the fucking nastiest blade she's seen since they stitched Matt up a few weeks ago, nothing major has been hit. No arteries, no organs. He'll be a bit woozy and he needs to stay put. He needs to eat. He needs to sleep and he needs to take it easy at least for a little while. She'll do what she can about antibiotics and painkillers, even though that means she's stepped off the very grey area she was already operating in and straight into something very dark and very not legal.

Claire is a godsend. She really is. Karen thinks she might just be about ready to qualify for sainthood.

It frightens her to even imagine where she would be now if Claire hadn't answered. If she would be at a hospital full of police officers who wouldn't let her see him. Who'd ask questions and post guards and then probably kill him anyway. Poison in his drip, torn stitches. It would be easy. Too easy.

She pulls her pajamas on, sits down on the edge of the bath, closes her eyes, gives herself a moment to poke at that slowly dissipating ball of anxiety in her belly.

He could have hemorrhaged. But he didn't.

He could have gone into shock. But he didn't.

He could have died. But he didn't.

He is, after all, a tough son of a bitch.

Still scares her though. The "what ifs" always do.

They always will.

Pickle is scratching at the door angrily and, when she opens it, the cat shoots inside, eyes huge and tail poofed like a feather duster before turning around and casually strolling out again. She shakes her head. The world has gone totally fucking nuts tonight. There is no reason a cat that's already wacky at the best of times, should be any different.

She stands up, towels off her hair, rakes a comb through it, gets rid of the worst tangles. The rest will have to wait.

Karen Page. Living on the edge.

The Punisher in her bed.

Oh God. _The Punisher in her bed._

She guesses it's about time to see to that very specific turn of events. She guesses she can't really avoid it much longer. She glances at herself in the mirror. Hair wet and stringy, skin still pink and dewy. But no blood. Not even a speck and that makes her feel better. At least she won't be going Lady Macbeth on anyone's ass. At least not tonight.

Claire has him propped up against some pillows when she walks into the room. The light is low, not like before when she arrived and turned every lamp on as bright as she could. But still, he looks like a shadow against the sheets. His face is a mess, a patchwork of bruises and crusting scabs, skin swollen and purpled. Claire says he won't be pretty for a while but there shouldn't be noticeable scars, except on his torso and shoulder where the deepest wounds are.

She doesn't care about pretty. She's not sure about him though. He does have his strange little quirks, his ways of surprising her that seem totally at odds with the barbarity and severity of his crimes. His coffee addiction, his love of dogs and she'd warrant a guess, other furry creatures. His taste in music. _Don't you know?_

 _(That's a pretty dress ma'am_.)

So it could be that pretty matters. She's not sure. Even if it does, it's probably only low importance right now.

She makes herself look at him. Forces herself to accept the reality of this, to accept the ugliness of this thing - whatever it may be - that happened tonight. He's naked from the waist up except for the bandages covering his side and his shoulder and her sheets are streaked with dirt and blood, but she finds it very hard to care. They can go in the wash tomorrow. What doesn't come out will stain. And that doesn't matter because that's just how things work. There are worse things in life than some of Frank's blood marring her bed. Like the fact that he could have died. Like the fact that he was so ready to and had come to say goodbye. And _Christ_ , she doesn't want to think about that. About how he needlessly dragged himself across town looking for her. How he didn't come here so she could save him but because he thought it important that she should know, that someone at least should witness his passing and maybe mourn him. That there would still be someone who cared enough to do that.

She pushes the thought away. She can't dwell on that now. He's not suicidal, that much she knows. If there was ever a time for that it's passed, and while she's pretty sure he considered it, pretty sure he wanted to be there in the ground with Maria and Lisa and Frank Jr, he's chosen a different path. Maybe one that's darker than the first, but different nonetheless. That's not to say she's never considered this cause of his could be suicide by proxy, a subverted silver lining while he gets to annihilate rapists and drug dealers and child pornographers in the meantime. He's not suicidal no, but he does have a death wish and maybe the only thing keeping him here is that he's too stubborn to die.

 _Leave it. Move on. There are more important things to deal with now._ She can dissect and analyse the implications of this once things have settled. Once they've talked and he's healed, however long that may take.

She moves across the room to where Claire is perched on the edge of the bed with a bowl of warm water and a cloth that she's using to wipe the blood and dirt off his skin.

He's quiet, a little unfocused, but staring at the wall as if he can somehow beat her apartment into submission with his gaze. He _is_ letting Claire see to him, although he's refusing to look at her either because he's trying to hold onto some of his dignity or because he's simply too high from blood loss and ibruprofen to care. Claire isn't fazed, at least not anymore.

She was at first. She was incredibly fazed - and it could be that "fazed" is too much of a euphemism to be remotely accurate - when she arrived and realised that this apparent half dead man in Karen's bed was The Punisher aka The Scourge of Hell's Kitchen aka What The Fuck Are You Doing Karen Page?

And somehow in the midst of garbled explanations and pleas to just get him stabilised and she'd explain everything later Karen had managed to stop her reaching for her phone and calling every cop in the city to the front door. At the time it had felt like it was close, that there was every reason for Claire to ignore her and do the wise thing, the right thing. Police, ambulance. Fucking FBI if that was necessary. Hand Frank over and wash her hands of it. But then Claire was never one to take the easy way out. She's seen Matt through God knows what, and while Frank might be a step up (or down, depending on your perspective), this wasn't all that different. And she saved him, stitched him up, pulled his pieces back together.

She doesn't know how Claire does it every day and then seems to come home and do it most nights too. This city's vigilante problem would disappear overnight if something were to happen to her. There's just no way any of them could survive without her.

But that too comes with a price. There's a payoff, a comeuppance of sorts. Because, while Karen knows that Claire tries to keep herself in the dark about the things Matt gets up to, she doesn't think she's going to adopt the same policy towards Frank. He's a mass murderer, she not going to let that slide. She's going to demand answers. And frankly, she's owed them and Karen knows she isn't walking out of here until she tells her the whys and whens of how all this came to be. And maybe it won't be so bad. She's kept a lot of things locked up inside lately, she holds onto the secret of Frank Castle like he's her truth and she won't share it - whatever there may or may not be to share - and maybe it's time for all that to end. Maybe it's time to unburden.

"He's eaten," Claire nods at an empty bowl on the side table. "Not much but enough. He'll live. For better or worse."

Claire's voice is dry, slightly exasperated and Karen nods. He does look better or maybe that's just her own wishful thinking but he's not shivering and while he's still the same colour as her sheets that's a vast improvement on his clammy corpse grey hue from earlier.

"Do you want some tea? Coffee?"

Claire stops what she's doing. Straightens up. Seems to consider the question for a while as if it is far more important than it really is. As if the decision weighs heavily on her shoulders and she needs to examine every conceivable outcome.

"You got anything stronger?"

Karen grins. "Vodka? Gin? I think I might have some Bourbon in the cupboard."

"Now you're talking."

"Why don't you get it?" She nods at Frank. "I don't mind taking over here."

That earns her a mildly suspicious look but Claire doesn't say anything as she hands over the cloth and heads off to the kitchen cursing as Pickle charges under feet and trips her up. The cat is a menace. A ball of black Hazard Fluff designed to turn her and everyone else who enters her apartment into a slave. Those who resist will be summarily destroyed with teeth or claws.

Maybe Ellison was right after all. Maybe Karen Page really does know how to pick them.

She sits down on the bed, wedges herself in next to Frank's hip and leans across him to plant one arm into the mattress close to his hand. He smells of soil and sweat. Copper. So much copper. It's everywhere and the room stinks of it.

She looks down at him, tries to see through the bruises and the blood, the dirt. He seems small, frail even and she hates that because he's neither. He's big and powerful and while he's not all buff, oiled muscle like a WWE superstar or a professional bodybuilder, he's defined, corded and hard. He could break her and, in a wild contradiction, that's part of the reason he's always made her feel safe. Because he knows his own strength - he _does_ \- but sometimes he doesn't know all of it, doesn't know it as well as he should and that's why he's always held a little too tight, gripped a little too hard, stolen her breath and kept it for himself and that was a part of him she always thought of as constant and unbreakable. And admitting that she could be wrong is so, _so_ hard.

But she is and she does and he looks deflated and diminished, as if he shrunk and sagged when the blood ran out of his veins.

She shakes her head. He's going to be fine. He will be. So help her God, Frank Castle is going to walk out of this apartment one day better than he has been in years. She'll keep him safe when he can't.

She is _not_ done.

"Frank," she touches his face and he turns his head to look at her, blinks a few times. He's disoriented and his pupils are huge and blown but he knows her. She sees it in the way his expression changes, how his eyes soften and he stops grinding his teeth, how he doesn't look away and stops taking his impotent rage out on her walls.

She runs her thumb along his cheekbone. It's badly bruised but he doesn't flinch, even though he probably should. But, then again, when he touched her bruises it wasn't sore. Not even slightly. Maybe this is what they can do for one another. Maybe this is their bond. They don't hurt each other.

Except they do. They really do.

"You're okay," she says softly. "I'm just going to clean you up a bit."

He nods slowly, as if he needs time to understand her words, decipher them so that they make sense and she wants to cry with how weak he is. This isn't him. This isn't him at all. Yes he's tough and he's mean and he breaks her heart without even trying. Yes, he's difficult and there have been many, many times since they first met that she's wished things were different, that those flashes of humour and affection would be more commonplace and he wouldn't be living this double life where he shows her his sweetness and deference and everyone else his rage. But as she runs the cloth across his face and neck and he accepts it, weak as a newborn, she finds herself wishing he would fight her. Resist somehow. That he'd object to being babied like this.

But he doesn't. So she carries on. Long, gentle strokes against his skin, the hard lines of his collarbones, the dent of his breastbone. Over and over, wiping away at the grime and the blood, the water turning a ghastly grayish pink at each rinse. He watches her. His eyes are heavy and bruised but she's aware of his gaze. It burns her, more so than usual. She can feel its hardness against her skin, the way he's drawing her in, taking notes like he always does and filing them away. It doesn't scare her. It's one thing that never has. His eyes could bore into her blood and her bones and her soul if she has one and she wouldn't look away, wouldn't crumble under his scrutiny. She has more power here than him. She always has.

She rinses the cloth, runs it across his ribs, his belly and, when his skin turns to gooseflesh and he sucks in a sharp breath, she glances at him to see where she's hurt, where she needs to be softer, kinder, but the look on his face, the way he's chewing on his lip and swallowing heavily tells her that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with something else. Something darker and wilder and scarier than either of them could imagine. Except she thinks they both could. They both _have_.

Truth is, he's not even attempting to hide it anymore. Not even a little bit. May be that he doesn't have the energy to expend trying, may be that he doesn't want to. And even though this now feels like apocalyptic levels of disaster, she's starting to wonder if the bigger disaster would be to carry on pretending it isn't there. Denying it. Trying to let go over and over again and never truly succeeding.

Him and her and he's in her bed and he needs her and cares for her and would set the world on fire to save her. It doesn't matter that she doesn't need saving. Not now. Unless maybe it's from him. Him and this rage that lives inside him. The beast that lets itself be gentled under her hands.

She'd do the same for him. She already has.

Because she knows. She _knows_. And so does he.

She's aware that there are tears on her cheeks. She's not even angry about it. In fact she's amazed she's held on this long. Keeping the floodgates bolted throughout this ordeal is some kind of victory all on its own. Could be that she deserves a medal, a commendation of sorts. _Karen Page: intrepid reporter, lover of vigilantes and holder back of tears under extreme duress._

And then his hand twitches next to her and she feels his fingers closing around her arm anchored in the mattress. His grip is weak but it's warm and he's holding on and not needing anyone to help him. He rubs his thumb across the inside of her wrist, presses down slightly, maybe because he wants to, maybe just to see if he could. He might not be strong now, but that's okay, he will be again.

She gives him a watery smile, returns to the business of cleaning him. His neck, the slow and steady pulse where she put her lips once upon a time and made a promise, his shoulders, down his arm to his free hand. He lifts it off the sheets for her and she rubs the cloth across his palm, between his fingers, against his wrist where she can see his veins, that other nexus of life and part of her longs to put her lips there too. To make another promise. One she can keep. One that won't make her a liar.

But maybe they're not ready for that. Maybe not yet. This is, after all, a crisis situation. This is not the time to be falling in love or falling into bed or falling into any other nightmare that could exist when The Punisher and the woman he calls "ma'am" are in the same orbit. Because terrible things happen when they are. Terrible, wonderful, fucked up, amazing things.

His knuckles are bloodied and she reaches for the Bactine in Claire's bag, sprays it on the barely scabbed wounds and sees him flinch as she does. It's instinctive and stupid and ridiculous but she tugs his hand to her and blows gently, feels him stiffen next to her, watches as his chest turns to gooseflesh for the second time in minutes, jaw clenching and nipples puckering. And she's screaming at herself to stop, to leave this, to go and call Claire and let her take over, but his hand tightens at her wrist and his thumb draws another circle onto her skin, harder this time, with purpose. And somehow he makes that feel like gratitude and an apology and something else all at once.

She looks up, meets his eyes. He staring at her in that hard, unwavering way. Even in his current state it still manages to border on lewd even though it isn't. She's wondered before how he was with Maria, if she'd also found him magnetic in this way. Or if he was so very different then. If nothing of The Punisher lurked in his blood. If he could just be the man he was meant to be, the one that saved a box of kittens from the side of the road and then brought his girl a pretty dress to make up for a ruined date. She guesses she'll never know. And she doesn't want to. The man he was then is not for her, can never be for her.

"You can put your hand down now," she takes a deep breath. "We're done."

His hand stays where it is though, wavers for a few seconds and then he clumsily touches her face, wipes the tears off her cheek and slides it into her wet hair, cups the back of her head. And then, seemingly with great effort, he drags her close so that her forehead is touching his, pressing against her and breathing heavily in time with her, and all she can think is how the last time they were like this she thought he was going to kiss her. That he'd cover her mouth with his and nothing else would matter.

Except it would have. And that's fine too.

She closes her eyes, wraps her hand around his forearm. Squeezes. She can smell his breath, heavy and bloody, his skin, sweaty under the antiseptic. And yes, that purity is still there. Even now, it's still there.

He says her name soft and low, weak but there's something in it. Something that sounds like him, the toughest, meanest son of a bitch she's ever met. Something deep. Foundational. His voice is raw and hoarse and she thinks of when he told her about Lisa and her never realised grey tabby called Daisy and how his voice had cracked then. How he'd sounded like he was pulling pieces of himself apart just to force the words out of his mouth. How this sounds like that too.

His fingers press into her scalp and his chest heaves, shudders. And she turns her head so that her lips brush his arm, presses a kiss into his skin.

She could stay like this, she realises. This is all it has to be. Ever. His one hand in her hair, the other wrapped around her arm, his breath on her skin. It would be enough. She would take it. She thinks he would too and it occurs to her that that thought, if it has ever entered his head, is probably more frightening to him than the idea of fucking her, of having her. But then again, she can't be sure. Aside from that one infinitesimally small moment when he's knee went between her thighs and his teeth scraped her throat, he's always been about the confessions. The feelings. The honesty. Until he wasn't.

Until then. Until now.

Because she knows. She _knows_.

Eventually she pulls away and his hands fall to his sides, energy expended and his eyes are glassy. She leans in, presses her lips to his forehead, lingers, the taste of his sweat and blood in her mouth.

"You're going to be okay Frank."

It feels less like a lie now. More like a promise. More like something she can control.

He nods, his fingers finding hers again and giving a weak squeeze.

"Ma'am."

"You sleep now. You're safe. We'll sort everything out tomorrow."

She scrubs a hand across her face, straightens up. Pickle is rubbing against her foot and intermittently flopping onto her back to claw carpets and toes and anything else she might see.

And when she turns around to look across the room, there's Claire standing in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand resting on the door frame, the other on her forehead and she's staring at her like she doesn't know her at all and she's not sure if she wants to.

"What are you doing Karen?" she asks and her words come out quickly and it's obvious she's not talking about the here and now, although it's a fair bet that that is at least part of it. But no, this is a far more generic and all encompassing question. The type you ask a one time fling when you find out that he's The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, the type you ask yourself when you realise you're in love with a mass murderer. It's not so much a demand for an explanation, as it is a comment on your life choices. A tempered "what the fuck" often moonlighting as something else but ultimately still a "what the fuck".

Yes, it was always going to come to this. And it's honestly a relief that it has.

She stands, slides an arm around Frank's shoulders and eases him down as she pulls the pillows out from behind him, covers him with the duvet. She think she even sees a ghost of a smile as she switches off the bedside lamp.

The big bad Punisher mostly naked and sleeping in her bed.

Karen Page. Living on the edge. Not a hint of irony in that statement.

She inclines her head towards the kitchen and Claire stands aside to let her through. Like the rest of the apartment the kitchen is bigger than she initially thought when she saw the place. It has real counters and even an island, came fitted with a stove, fridge and a washing machine which she didn't expect. So the decor is a little garish with it's bright yellow cupboards and pink gingham curtains and sometimes the fridge hums a little too loudly. But overall she still thinks she got a good deal, that Claire putting in a good word helped, that Irene's death stare which, after tonight, will no doubt get worse, is a small price to pay.

There are two glasses of whisky on the counter and she takes one, hands the other to Claire and downs it. It burns her mouth, stings her throat and make her eyes water but she doesn't care. She pours another, knocks that one back too.

She's exhausted. They both are.

"I guess since I have a pair of working eyes, I probably don't need to ask the question, but I think I want to hear it from you anyway," Claire pours herself a refill too. "So you gonna tell me what's going on here? You can start with why I just spent the last hour stitching The Punisher up and I didn't call the cops and then carry on with what I just saw back there."

Karen closes her eyes, leans against the counter, gives herself a moment to wade through this complex, convoluted series of events that led to Frank showing up half dead at her apartment, figure out how much she's willing to say, what's up for grabs and what she's going to keep close to her chest. It's not that Claire has a squeaky clean record when it comes to cleaning up vigilantes. She knows that Matt isn't the only one who comes to her door in the dead of night needing to be patched up. She's seen a big man in a hoodie and a petite brunette, some others that are less than regular and therefore possibly better at what they do, she doesn't know. So no, Claire doesn't have _all_ the moral high ground, but it's fair to say she has most of it. And it doesn't really matter either way because Frank, well Frank is different. This isn't a righteously driven hero fighting for a cause. This isn't Matt trying to clean up a dirty city. This is a man fuelled by rage and revenge and if there is any honour and selflessness involved it comes second to vengeance, a byproduct to his war with the world. Or at least that's what people think. Even the people who know he's not the fascist monster he's been made out to be.

He's a nightmare. He's a good man. She's stopped trying to reconcile the two. They both just are.

She opens her eyes, looks at Claire. She's not really sure where to start. Not even sure how much Claire already knows, how much talking her and Matt actually do and, if they do, why Frank Castle would ever come up. But then again, she doesn't think Claire is going to care about hearing the same story again. She probably would insist on hearing Karen's side anyway.

So she starts at the beginning. Or a good approximation thereof. She leaves out the bit where he chased her through the hospital with a shotgun. Claire knows that already and she's very aware how childish she's going to sound insisting that he would never have hurt her and that she was safe simply because he told her as much.

Besides it was in the papers and it is what it is. He _did_ walk through a hospital with a shotgun, and he did shoot in her general direction and even though she believes him with all her heart because he's shown her again and again that she can trust him, she _does_ only has his word that she was safe.

She tells her about how her and Matt and Foggy went to see him after he was arrested, how he would only talk to her and how he called her ma'am and sometimes still can't look her in the eye. She tells her about his family, how she helped him remember, how they were the victims of a sting operation that went tits up and left all of them lying in the dirt. That he blames himself. That he couldn't protect them, couldn't do his job. How he lost everything and then how he saved her life and then saved it again. How he doesn't lie to her and he saves dogs. That he's bad and he's wrong and he's messed up but she can't hate him. That he's good and he's right and might be the sanest of them all and she can't forget that. She tells her that he visited her on the roof, that up until six or so weeks ago, he would let her know he was alive, because he knew she would worry and he didn't want that.

She leaves out the bit about Schoonover, about how she sank to her knees in the woods and told him she was done. She doesn't tell her about the cabin and how he said "don't you know?" and how it opened up a world of possibilities in her head that she never imagined existed. How it doesn't matter much now. She doesn't tell her about how he danced with her and scraped his teeth down her neck and shoved his knee between her thighs and put blood all over her dress.

It's exhausting and she tries so hard to stick to the facts, to not sound like an infatuated teenager who fell in love with the darkness one night and never pulled herself out again. It's also cathartic in a way she could never imagine it would be. And while she hasn't shouted out to the world that she's in love with Frank Castle and isn't that just the darndest thing, all she really feels is relief. Sure she still has some secrets, or she'd like to think she does. But after tonight and what she did and what Claire saw, she's not counting on holding onto an awful lot of them. Claire's too smart for that anyway.

Her mouth is dry when she finishes and she downs another shot of whisky, which doesn't really help. She should stop. It's really late and she's tired and she hasn't eaten because you have to be insane to drink at Josie's let alone eat. But it's her birthday and it's been remarkably shitty even if the bar for shitty birthdays isn't that high.

She runs a hand through her hair, smiles wanly.

"So here we are," she says. It sounds lame and trite to her ears. Must sound even worse to Claire's.

Claire takes a deep breath, bites her lip. She really does look great, even though she's still wearing Karen's kitchen apron to stop getting Frank's blood all over her cream satin dress and Karen knows she'll have to make up for cutting her date short.

"Do you know what happened to him?" she asks.

"Tonight? No. But I can guess. He went sniffing around where he shouldn't have been sniffing. He bit off more than he could chew. He saw someone he could save or someone he should kill and ended up nearly getting killed himself."

"And then he dragged himself across town so you could kiss it all better?"

It's a dig. A small one, but a dig nonetheless. She ignores it in favour of the bigger question, the scarier one. The one she's thought since she found him hanging onto the fire escape, but hasn't truly admitted to herself.

"He didn't come here for me to fix him. He came to say goodbye."

Claire considers her for a long moment. "Maybe. Or he came to the place that would give him the best chance of surviving."

She shakes her head. "I don't think that was his plan. You should have seen him outside. He was ready to go."

Claire shrugs in a way that seems to imply it doesn't really matter and Karen guesses it doesn't. He might have a death wish but he's going to stay alive long enough to take as many bad guys down as he can. He's not going to do anything to jeopardise that.

"He still came to you," Claire pours herself another drink, downs it, narrows her eyes. "So you gonna answer my second question?"

Yeah, _sure_. Sure she will. Could be an interesting answer considering she barely knows what's going on. Considering this is a big fucked up mess and she has no idea how tonight will change things, if it changes them at all. It's not like she doesn't know there's something there. Of course she does. He does too. He said as much when he told her they had to let it go. When he chose to keep her in his heart and not in his life.

She shrugs. It really is the best she's got.

Claire snorts but she's smiling. She gets it.

"He looks at you like you hung the moon Karen. Maybe the stars too."

And isn't that just fucking hilarious? The big bad Punisher brought low by a plucky little reporter who doesn't know when to let go, who doesn't _want_ to know when to let go and wouldn't even if someone told her.

It's ridiculous. Even more so because it's true.

 _Don't you know?_

"I don't know if it's like that," she says and she has no idea why, maybe a final attempt at self preservation, at having some kind of control over this thing that seems to burn like wildfire between them. Maybe she's just tired and confused and overwrought.

Claire purses her lips, "Well then it's like something that looks just like that."

She can't argue. It _is_ like something. Something profound and deep and something she seems unable and unwilling to extract herself her from.

"It's a mess."

Claire nods. Apparently she agrees. As she should.

"Look Karen, it seems to me that this," she indicates vaguely in Frank's direction, "is just kind of what I do. And that's okay. I'm not climbing on my high horse, pretending that I'm somehow better than everyone else. I shouldn't do it. I could lose my licence, I could go to jail. But most of our police force is run by Fisk and from what you've told me now the DA is corrupt too. And you know, if I'm saving lives, if I'm putting goodness back into the world, I can live with the risk. But that's the payoff. I have to go to bed at night knowing that I'm causing less harm rather than more."

Karen nods. This is all fair enough. Claire makes sense. She always does.

"I trust you Karen. You're smart. I don't think you'd be swayed by a pretty face or a little charm - not that he has either of those at the best of times. But I guess what I'm saying is I don't want to regret this and I know you can't promise me I won't so I'm not going to ask. I'm just saying that I think there's a shorter expiration date on this than on anyone else I help."

She has no delusions about what Frank is, so this isn't a surprise. She's not going to try and win Claire over into believing that the things Frank does are good when she herself doesn't believe it.

Claire downs another shot, takes a breath.

"I'm going home. You call me if you need anything at all." She looks down to where Pickle is winding herself around her legs, leaving trails of black fluff on her shoes. "He should be fine. The more he sleeps the better. Keep feeding him. I'll stop by tomorrow morning, help him shower if he needs it."

"Thanks Claire. Honestly. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You do," she says. "You know exactly what you would have done."

It's true. She would have dialled 911, she would have called Mahoney and then Foggy. Then Ellison. She would have made a huge fucking song and dance about it so that no one could have gotten near to him without their faces being splashed across the papers. She would have sat herself down in his room and chained herself to the bed. Because him loving her is less important to her than him being alive.

She nods and Claire seems to soften, no more severe Nurse Temple pissed at having to cut an apparently wonderful date short to come and stitch up another idiot who overestimated his own badassery. Just Claire. Sweet, wonderful, ever patient and yet often exasperating Claire. One of the angels who happen to walk on earth.

"Anything you need Karen, you call," she says untying the apron and putting it on the counter. "And happy birthday. Looks like you got a hell of a present."

Karen rolls her eyes and then can't help it and she snorts, which makes Pickle jump and miaow.

Claire picks up her purse, heads to the door, stops when her hand is on the doorknob. She seems to consider something and then makes up her mind and turns. And her eyes are sparkling. "And don't worry, if I see your vigilante boyfriend I won't tell him that your other vigilante boyfriend is spending the night."

"He's not my boyfriend." Yes it sounds lame. Even she can hear the petulance in her voice but Claire just smirks.

"Which one?"

"Neither."

Claire raises an eyebrow.

"Both."

Two eyebrows now.

"Oh God Claire, just go home," but they're both laughing and things feel better than they have all night.

"Take care," she pulls the door open, steps into the hall, throws her final punch. "Oh and Karen, that man lost a lot of blood, please stop diverting what he has left elsewhere."

Karen picks a scatter cushion off the couch and tosses it at her but she's gone and the cushion lands against the door with a thud, slides to the floor and she swears she can hear Claire laughing over the sound of her heels clicking against the wooden floors as she makes her way to the lifts.

Still an angel or a saint, but maybe there's a little devil there too.

She glances to where Frank lies asleep. Maybe they all have a little devil in them. A little of both.

She locks the door, leans against it for a moment. It's been a hell of a night. A _hell_ of a night. This city was never more aptly named. She can still barely believe that somehow everything is okay. That she found him, that Claire saved him, that he's even here and it's unlikely he will die. That he's somehow back in her life. That Matt is also somehow back even if he's only skirting the edges, standing on the periphery, hoping for an invitation to come inside.

Matt.

Oh God _Matt_.

She rushes across the room for her purse, pulls out his gift with its bright paper and pretty bows and reaches for her phone.

2:06.

 _Fuck._

She punches his number into the keypad, sees his picture come up on the display and listens to it ring. She knows he doesn't keep his phone on him when he's out prowling the streets and for good reason. But if he's not answering it means he's already on his way and she really doesn't want to have to explain the hows and whys of this to him too. Once a night is enough. Once a decade would be better.

She's holding her breath, praying to the God that he believes in that he's still home, that he hasn't left, that he's not on his way. But he answers quickly. He sounds stressed and the tiniest bit angry but she can hear the relief in his voice.

She tells him she's home and she's fine, to go to sleep and stop worrying about her. He presses her a little, gets that slightly Condescending Dad Tone that once thought was sweet and now just makes her sigh. He wants to know where she went and what happened. But she tells him she's not going to tell him and not to ask her to. And eventually he accepts it.

He says to call if she needs to and she says she will and she's genuinely grateful for his concern. Things might never be what they were but she has friends who care about her and people who worry and that makes her life richer.

He wishes her happy birthday again and she says goodbye and then it's just her. Her and Pickle and the big bad Punisher mostly naked and asleep in her bed.

She got her eyeful. When the universe grants wishes and plays games, it does it for keeps.

She should rest. She should take a blanket and curl up on the couch, try and snatch a few hours before he wakes up and she has to face tomorrow. But she's Karen Page. She's never done the easy thing. So she goes to him, sits back down at his side.

Pickle is on the bed, purring loudly and curled up next to him, which is almost a bigger miracle than anything else that has happened tonight. But her cat is wacky and it makes sense that it would gravitate towards wacky people.

She touches his head, clean fingers against his dirty scalp, thumb snagging on his greasy hair and then finding the smoother, downier fuzz on the back of his neck. He's soft there and wonders if this is the only place inside and out that he is. But she of all people knows that isn't true.

 _Don't you know Karen, don't you know? Yes Frank. Yes I know._

His breathing is slow and heavy and she kisses his brow again, listens as he mumbles something which she can't quite hear.

He's bruised and bloody but he's beautiful.

He's a tipped scale. And she has no idea what to do about any of it.


	5. There's a weight in the air

**This chapter was a bit of a nightmare to write because not only did I need to get the pacing and the feel right from the previous chapter, I also had to set a few things up for the next one. So I wrote this chapter a couple of times and then I still went back and tweaked. And I _think_ I might have it now. Truth is thought, I'm doubting myself with this but every time I think I need to make changes, I find that what I have done just feels right. **

**We'll see. Problem is the only way to really tell is after the next chapter and I don't know how long that is going to take, because it's going to have some heavy stuff in it. On the other hand, it has a definite outline, so it might be easier. Who knows? I am terrible at predicting these things.**

 **Anyway, enough rambling. Thanks to everyone who has been leaving comments. They are honestly what keeps me going.**

 **Title is from Rob Thomas' "Pieces", which has been hugely influential in writing this story.**

* * *

Luna is a problem. Luna is big pitbull-sized problem Karen didn't think she would have but does. Because Frank "Scourge of Hell's Kitchen and Big Fucking Man Baby" Castle has done the very thing he said he wouldn't and he kept her.

No, it's not that she's really mad with him. She gets it. Oh God, she fucking gets what it's like to be so lonely and so lost that the comfort of something sweet and furry and consistently happy to see you seems like just too much to give up. You tell yourself that shelters are overfilled, that you can't control who their next owner will be, that they have bonded and attached to you, and while all of these things make sense, it really comes down to the fact that _you_ are not ready. _You_ don't want to say goodbye. So you don't. You let them in. You make them a bed. You feed them and then you hand over your old scabby, rotten heart and they keep it as if it was the best thing anyone ever gave them. She only has to look at Pickle to know.

So Luna ... yes Luna. The sappiest, sweetest excuse for a junkyard dog that ever existed. Luna, who should be living out her retirement in some haven in Jersey because apparently, once upon a time, Frank beat someone to death for the owner. She doesn't know this for certain. Couldn't honestly say that's what went down and despite everything, even if it did, she's willing to concede that he probably had his reasons and that they might make sense to, well, him and maybe her, you know on the chance that she completely discards her moral backbone and becomes the Bonny to his Clyde. And wouldn't that be something? She'd want fire-engine red lipstick and a wide-brimmed hat, gold buckles on her shoes. Everything else is negotiable.

But, regardless of her own personal thoughts on Things Frank Castle Could Have Done To Earn The Gratitude Of A Sanctuary Owner In Jersey, she pretty sure it involved lots of guns and fists and maybe a body or two in the bottom of the Atlantic. Pretty sure he's got the scars to prove it.

And well, she doesn't even need to say that she's pretty sure he hasn't cashed it in, because she knows. She fucking knows.

Because Luna, the sweet and sappy pibble in question is currently sitting in the back of her car, fogging up her windows, and watching excitedly as she makes her way through the Saturday morning traffic to Foggy's place. Foggy is also destined for sainthood. Him and Claire can get murals or sculptures or fucking life-size oil paintings and she'll put them in the Vatican herself if that's what it comes to.

She stops at a traffic light and Luna takes the opportunity to put her feet on Karen's seat and lick her from her neck to her cheek.

And it's slimy and soppy and her breath smells like something crawled down her throat and died but, despite herself, Karen laughs and leans back to rub Luna's head, scratch her under the chin and get jowly drool all over her hands which she wipes on her jeans.

"It's okay girl," she says. "You're gonna get a nice place to relax."

Luna barks and Karen can hear her tail thumping hard against the seats.

She really is a great dog. Honestly, she is. Despite what could have only been an appalling life of neglect and very likely abuse, birthing litter after litter, and then having her puppies taken from her too young to become fighting dogs, Luna has a temperament much like a ray of sunshine.

It's easy to see why Frank loves her. In fact it's easy to see why Frank loves most of the things he does. And she staunchly refuses to add her name to that list. She won't. She will not.

 _Don't you know?_

She yawns as the light changes from red to green and the cars in front of her start edging forward.

She hasn't slept much. She was exhausted and the slightest bit tipsy after those four or five bourbon shots in quick succession, but somehow, try as she might, she couldn't fall asleep. Claire said Frank would be fine and it's not like she doesn't believe Claire knows her shit, because she fucking does. She really fucking does. But the very thought that she could go to sleep and wake up and he'd be gone in one way or another kept her up, sitting on the couch in the dark and listening to him breathe and Pickle purr. She must have drifted. She _must_ have because she knows she lost time somewhere between watching the kitchen clock go from 3:45 to 5:20. But she's pretty sure it couldn't have been much more than that.

She's been awake since then, watching the sky stay dark and dreary, the first flecks of rain against the window. The miserable grey day slowly unfolding on itself and casting its weak light on Frank where he slept in her bed.

She tried to read a bit, but the words swam on the page and then she tried to sleep a bit more but the couch, usually comfortable enough for at least one night, felt like it was made of rocks with a layer of saran wrap pulled over it. In the end she opted for a big fucking pot of coffee and a peach yoghurt and some long looks outside into the gloom like the imprisoned heroine of a gothic romance watching the world go by.

Yes she's dramatic. She's tired and she's earned it.

And then Frank woke up. She thinks it may have been the coffee. That maybe he's like a sniffer dog but only for caffeine because she could swear that his nostrils flared and his brow crinkled just before he opened his eyes. She thinks that if Matt and Frank had a sniffing contest it's very likely Matt would win, because Matt is Matt and he can apparently smell the sandwiches you ate three years ago. So yes, he'd win. Unless they were looking for coffee, because if that was the prize at the end of what must be the world's most ridiculous competition - real or just a product of Karen Page's broken brain - then all bets are off.

And yes, this is what she thinks about when she tired and grumpy and The Punisher is mostly naked in her bed.

Regardless he opened his eyes and that's when the trouble started. Not that he was difficult. He seemed to recognise that he was safe and being cared for. He was less confused than she thought he would be, remembering strangely detailed aspects of the previous night, like how they'd fooled Irene and how Claire gave him a hard time but forgetting others, like how he got to her apartment and when he'd been at her car.

He did remember how Karen cleaned him up and she knows he remembered more than that too, but neither of them said anything about it, save for his fingers brushing her wrist gently and lingering a moment too long.

And then he asked about Luna and for a moment she thought he'd lost his mind until it all came out that he'd kept her. He still intended to take her to Jersey, he was going to, but he just hadn't. Not yet. He didn't try for excuses and she didn't push him. Luna in her own way has come to represent so much and not just to him. And she gets it. She does. It's stupid and irresponsible and he knows it's untenable, but it is what it is.

So, she did the only thing she could. She called Foggy, begged him to take advantage of his building's incredibly flexible pet policy and do her a solid.

And because he's Foggy and he loves her and he's her rock and he's the most wonderful human being on Earth, he agreed.

And it worked out. Well, maybe that's not the right choice of words as nothing fucking ever really works out but there was a silver lining at least. Because Luna, God bless her slobbery soul, was not up in a cabin at the end of the world. Frank didn't keep her there and had seemed mildly affronted when Karen asked. No, she was in the city, a place he rented in Vinegar Hill. The seedy part of Vinegar Hill where motels are rented by the hour and you don't need ID for a lease. She's been there once or twice. It makes Hell's Kitchen look like The Hamptons.

It did mean however, that Karen could pick up some of his clothes and yes, some of his arsenal too.

Silver lining. It has one.

So when Claire arrived, looking none the worse for wear after all the previous night's whisky, but dressed a bit like she was planning on washing a particularly boisterous and smelly dog (and Lord, Karen liked how many levels that simile worked on), she decided to take the opportunity to firstly change the bed sheets and secondly get her ass down to Vinegar Hill for Luna.

The last thing she heard as she left was Claire's exasperated voice from the bathroom asking Frank if he really thought whatever he had was so damn special that she, an ER nurse, had never seen it before. And if it was could she please take a damn picture.

She's pretty sure Claire has it covered. Pretty sure she'll keep him in line.

She turns into Foggy's road. Despite his new and decidedly lucrative job, he hasn't left Hell's Kitchen but he's certainly moving up in the world. His place has a concierge, visitor parking and frankly, it's enormous. Her entire apartment would probably fit into his four times over and he pays for that in long hours and working more weekends than he doesn't. He says he's happy to do it, says that he feels like he's growing, picking up skills. Learning. And that that was something he could never do at Nelson and Murdock.

He was, and still is, the better lawyer.

Better friend too.

She parks her car next to a neat flower bed of white and purple petunias and helps Luna out of the backseat. She'll come back for the food but she grabs Luna's dog bed. Which is pale blue and has bunnies on it. And the idea of Frank walking into a pet store and choosing it is just not an image she can conjure up in her head. So that makes her try even harder.

She still can't. But she'll get there. She always does when it comes to Frank.

She glances up at the sky, the clouds are still rolling in dark and fast and the air feels thick and full, like it's holding back something deep and furious and frightening and getting ready to unleash its rage on the world. It's been threatening for a while now. It'll happen. It has to.

 _Batten down the hatches, and get inside, we're in for a long night._

It's an ominous thought and she shakes it away, looks at Luna who is wagging her tail so hard that her whole body is swaying from side to side. She barks sharply, happily, looks towards the street expectantly and then back at Karen as if she's withholding treats or something. But she knows that's not it. She can smell Frank on her clothes or her skin and she's waiting for him. Expecting Karen to produce him out of thin air in what would be both the world's best and lamest magic trick.

 _Sorry girl,_ she thinks, _you can't see him yet, but soon. He's going to be fine and we'll come and get you and then he's going to do what he damn well said and drive you to Jersey where you are going to live out the rest of your days in peace._

"Come on girl, put on your prettiest smile" she says grabbing her leash and maneuvering them to the front door. "We got people to impress."

There's a doorman, because of course there is, and he's wearing a uniform, because of course he is. It's not the first time she's thought that Foggy's block seems more like a hotel with its glass doors and brass trim, polished cedar wood floors, than an actual place where people live and breathe and exist. She's genuinely happy for him, happy that he's moved on and up, that he's found some meaning and consistency in his life that he was losing at Nelson and Murdock. Because he was losing. They all were. In more ways than one.

The doorman - Julian, according to his name badge - seems half asleep and slightly queasy and she can see why. He's young, maybe not even out of college yet and still spotty with a shock of red hair that seems both perfectly styled and untameable. He smells like cigarettes and booze and she's willing to hazard a guess that his Friday night went much like hers. Well, the hanging out with friends and drinking part at least. Not the Frank Castle in your bed part.

He spends a good few seconds patting Luna on the head before realising Karen is there and asking her what apartment number she needs. And then another good few seconds trying to figure out the intercom system until Karen has to show him herself.

"I'm new," he says apologetically and then sighs like he's been caught out. "And hungover."

She grins at him.

"Water and plenty of rest," she says and he looks at her as if she's quite mad.

He buzzes Foggy, who also sounds like he's half asleep, which considering he and he alone drank at least three-quarters of the fishbowl shouldn't seem like much of a surprise. Except it is, because that means Josie actually used alcohol, maybe pure ethanol stolen or discarded from a school science lab, but alcohol nonetheless. It would honestly make more sense if he was puking his guts out because of food poisoning.

She says goodbye to Julian and herds Luna into the lift and no, _no_ , it's nothing like last night. Because Luna's a dog, and she's sweet and amiable and it's much better than herding half dead Frank into a lift. And no, like Pickle walking in off her fire escape and staying in her life, it's not a thing. Not. A. Thing.

 _God, please let it not be a thing._

Foggy is waiting for her when the lift opens, standing half in, half out of his apartment and for a second it makes her think of Ellison and the way he tends to lean into her office but likes to keep one foot firmly in the passage outside. For safety. Or something.

His hair is messy and he's not wearing a shirt, grey sweatpants sitting too high at his waist and a pair of brown old man slippers on his feet. He's blinking sleep from his eyes and she has to remind herself that it's only 9am and, even if it feels like she's lived a full day and a night since she last slept because well, she has, to the rest of the world - in other words the people that don't have Frank Castle in their bed or in their shower depending on Claire's corralling skills - it's still really fucking early for a weekend morning.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," his voice is thick and rough and he clears his throat and tries again. "Hey."

He takes a second to scan her face, frowns a little and she's not sure why, and then peeks past her to where Luna sits, good as gold, at her side. And his eyes widen.

So, maybe she left out the bit that Luna was a pitbull and maybe she didn't exactly say Frank's name when she asked for a favour for someone she knows. Maybe she's also a horrible person who plays her cards too close to her chest. Maybe Foggy shouldn't be her friend.

"I'm sorry," she says and it sounds so trite, so feeble and lame and not much better when she backs it up with another truth. "I didn't know what else to do."

He bites his lip and puts a hand to his forehead, rubs his brow. She can see he's still really fuzzy from the previous night and that concentrating is hard. She wonders how long him and Marci stayed after she left. If he finished his game of pool or if Marci managed to talk him into giving up and coming home.

He runs a hand through his hair but it only makes it stick up more.

"When you said a dog, I didn't think you meant a hellhound."

Luna thumps her tail.

"Oh come on Foggy," she says reaching down to touch Luna's head. "It's only for a little while, a week, maybe two. She has a place at a sanctuary and I'll take her up as soon as I can. She's an angel. She really is."

"Hellhound."

But his voice is steadier now and there's a hint of mocking in it. Luna even gets a grudging smile as he holds his knuckles out for her to sniff, which she does and then licks his hand, leaving it glistening and wet. Karen though, Karen gets his best bitch face, the one he only uses for very special circumstances … and for Matt. It's okay though. She deserves it.

And then she hears Marci from inside.

"Are they here?"

Foggy pushes the door open a little wider and looks over his shoulder. "Yeah. Karen and her homeless hellhound have arrived. Apparently the shelters near the lake of fire are full and the ninth circle doesn't need its demon beast army today."

Karen rolls her eyes and Luna cocks her head, whines a little and then thumps her tail again.

Silence for a second and then Marci again, voice sterner this time. "Franklin Nelson, if you are giving Karen a hard time about some sweet puppy, I am going to kick your ass."

He leans back into the apartment.

"Come see your sweet puppy Marci. Come see this teeny tiny innocent little baby and then we'll see about an ass kicking."

She hears Marci coming to the door. Foggy grins, mouths something Karen can't make out and suddenly looks both incredibly guilty and appreciative, and then Marci is pushing the door further open and standing in the passage in a short indigo satin nightie. She apparently wasn't lying about her Victoria's Secret obsession. It shows. It looks great. Apparently Foggy thinks so too.

Saying Marci barely gives Karen a second glance would be a lie. Because that would necessitate a first glance and Karen doesn't get that either. She never really pegged Marci for a dog person. She'd always seemed too perfect, too smart, too worried about getting marks on her clothes and keeping a clean house. But that's what you get for judging people before you know them.

Because apparently Marci Stahl would give Frank a run for his money in the Dog People stakes. Because in no time she is on her knees on the floor, her hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, framing Luna's face and pulling the dog into a hug, squealing as Luna repays her in slobbery kisses.

It's an almost comical moment, made even funnier by the easy way Marci sheds her ice-queen, career woman persona and turns into a child who's just got her first pet.

"Who's a pretty girl? Hey? Who's the prettiest girl in the world?"

Karen glances at Foggy, catches a very warm and very content expression on his face before he notices her looking and rolls his eyes, all feigned exasperation and annoyance. He shakes his head. It's a sign of a man with more than a hand in his own defeat. In fact it's the sign of a man whose essentially causing it and racing to towards it happily.

It always is. Always.

"Okay," he concedes. "She can stay for a few days."

"No," Marci chimes in from the floor, "She can stay for as long as she likes."

"Maybe a week."

"Or two or three."

"Marci…"

"Franklin…"

Marci stands and Karen doesn't miss how Foggy's gaze seems to stay at thigh level.

She looks at Karen for the first time and grins. "She can stay and we'd love to have her. I've been telling him I want a dog for ages and maybe this will get him into the idea."

And again Karen is struck by just how much she's missed. She told Ellison that Foggy and Marci were screwing but what they actually were to one another could go either way. She realises how wrong she was. It couldn't go either way. Even if they don't know it yet. It is what it is.

And frankly, it's great.

Marci takes the dog bed from her. "She need special food or something?"

"Yeah, it's down in the car, I couldn't carry it all."

Truth is she has notes about Luna's food from Frank. He asked her to write everything down because apparently Luna's dietary plan is Very Important. Something to do with putting on weight and helping with calcium deficiency. She realised talking to him this morning that Luna is a personal project for him. It's not just about saving her, it's about seeing her well looked after and healthy. It's about giving her what he can of a good life before she eventually succumbs to her age or whatever other ailments she's developed on account of not being cared for until now. It's so fucking sad and so fucking noble all at the same time. And he hasn't realised it's either one.

"Luna? that's her name right?" Marci asks, pulling the leash out of Karen's hands.

Karen nods.

"Luna and I are going inside for some girl talk. You can sort out Franklin's existential angst over a sweet little puppy."

She kisses Karen on the cheek and turns on her heel but Karen calls her back, pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of Luna. It's a guess but she thinks Frank would like it and it would mean something to him. Or not. Doesn't matter. It means something to her.

She leans down and gives the dog a kiss on her head. Her fur smells clean and it's soft and she realises Frank's been washing her. Of course he has. He's Frank and God, he takes care of the things he loves with an almost obsessive dedication. But even knowing what she knows, even though he's held her and touched her and been so incredibly gentle with her (and she tries not to think of the ruthlessness, she _tries_ ) she wonders if she could ever really make anyone else understand. He'd say it doesn't matter, that he doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. But she started this crusade in a desperate attempt to humanise him, to find out if he was worthy of forgiveness and, in turn, if she was. She thinks she has her answer. And part of it is a big slobbery dog with bad breath and enough love in her heart for the whole world.

And then Marci's gone and it's just her and Foggy and he's looking at her like he can see right through her. It's not angry. It's not even exasperated. Doesn't even fall on that spectrum. It's something else entirely. Something that looks just like concern.

"You wanna tell me why I'm looking after Frank Castle's dog?" he says it softly. There's no hiss in his voice. It's a genuine question. And she could avoid it. She could find a way to dodge under the radar but it occurs to her that that would be doing the one thing she promised herself she never would do. She won't be a shitty friend, when all Foggy wants is to be a good one. She won't. Matt gets the shitty friend award, not her.

She sighs. Smiles wanly at him.

"How long do you have?"

He gives her an amused look.

"There's a coffee shop across the street. They make a really good latte and their pastries are out of this world. Up to you."

"Sounds great."

He grins, reaches behind the door, pulls out a faded navy hoodie and stuffs it over his head, doesn't bother to change his old man slippers.

He calls to Marci that he'll be back soon and from his expression Karen deduces he's being waved off and suddenly she realises how fucking well this all worked out. That by some cosmic interference Marci turns out to be the world's biggest dog lover after Frank Castle and Foggy is just the best person on the planet. Karen doesn't consider herself religious. And definitely not in the same way that Matt is. But today she considers herself blessed. The universe might be pitching a tantrum second to none, but she thinks she that maybe she's still winning in the Sainted Friends stakes. And that's totally a competitive category. Totally.

Julian is nowhere to be seen when they get to the lobby and she thinks he's either worshipping the porcelain throne or he's gone for a smoke break. Foggy makes some comment about the hardship of having to open doors for himself, sighs about "kids these days" and she elbows him in the ribs and he grins at her. And it just feels so good to be hanging out with him again like this. That ease of being with someone who has no expectations of you at all, who takes you as the mess you are, is something she's missed for so long. And suddenly it seems so silly to think that she couldn't have gone to him whenever she wanted. That she couldn't have sat him down that evening after Frank brought her home from the cabin, and spewed her guts out. That she couldn't have called him the night he left her on the roof with blood on her dress and on her face. She wouldn't have needed to explain more than she wanted. He would have been there. He's always there. And sure, maybe she needed time, maybe she did need to work things out for herself but, as she hasn't exactly been doing a stellar job on that front, it might be that she should have called in The Foggy Cavalry a little earlier than now.

The Foggy Cavalry, she likes that. He would too.

She takes his arm, smiles at him.

"What?" he asks.

"I just like your look," she says, glancing at his slippers, his worn sweatpants.

"I live in Hell's Kitchen Karen. Expectations here aren't high. Besides this is half sleepwear, half slob. I call it Slapdash Chic. It's very in around these parts."

She laughs. God she's missed him.

He leads her across the street into what looks like a surprisingly trendy and shiny coffee shop, all birch wood and burnished leather seating, low lighting and the smell of dark roast and freshly baked muffins. He's right about his attire though. He doesn't stick out at all. In fact, in her jeans and neat blue cardigan, she probably stands out more than he does.

He orders two lattes, eyes the apricot custard slices longingly, turns away in what seems to be a moment of immense willpower and then guiltily turns back to the barista and asks for two to stay and two to go.

They take an empty table next to the window. It's sombre outside and only getting worse, sky darkening rapidly and the smell of rain in the air. She hopes it will break soon. Hell's Kitchen has been threatening a storm for a while and all they gotten is a miserable drizzle and no relief to the weirdly thick static air that leaves them all feeling uncomfortable and sticky.

Foggy sits across from her, runs his fingers through his hair again. It doesn't help much and she leans forward to smooth what she can. That doesn't work either and she gives up, sips her coffee and watches him over the rim of the cup.

He doesn't say anything first, devotes his time to attacking his pastry and she realises he's waiting for her to start. Wherever and whenever she wants.

So she does. She tells him much what she told Claire. About the way Frank saved her life in her apartment and then seemingly squandered it in the diner. How he saved it again the night of the cabin. How that was when they found Luna. How he turned up at her building last night, half dead and more than ready to go and Claire put him back together. How he's there now.

The thing is though, Foggy knows all this already. And what he didn't he could probably infer.

He chews, swallows and washes it down with a gulp of coffee. Eyes her expectantly across the table.

"Okay, so now you gonna tell me what's really going on?"

She looks down, picks at her nails. Remembers how she had to scrape Frank's blood off her hands. How every loose flake seemed like a victory. How she watched it swirl down the plug. It's not there now. Nothing is there now.

"Karen," his voice is soft and he reaches across the table, touches her elbow. "Karen I'm not going to tell anyone. Not even Matt. Especially not Matt."

She looks up, smiles. It's so silly really. It's not like it should be a big secret. This isn't high school. You don't whisper about your crushes behind the bleachers, leave little love notes in lockers.

Grown ass woman. She is one.

"I think Frank Castle is falling in love with me."

It's harder to say than she expected. And it's not because of what it means, it's not even because she's worried about Foggy's reaction although maybe she should be. It's that it sounds so ridiculous to her ears, like it couldn't possibly be true. That she must be high or quite deranged to even entertain the idea. Because he's The Punisher. He kills. He hurts. He punishes. He doesn't love.

Except he does.

None of them would be where they are if he didn't.

And then for all the world, Foggy shrugs.

He _shrugs_. And it takes her a moment to realise that's what he did because it would have probably shocked her less if he slapped her and told her to go to her room without any supper.

"Foggy?"

He takes another sip of coffee, wipes his mouth with a serviette.

"I'm sorry Karen, but to quote one of my favourite movies 'I think I'm going to have a heart attack and die from that surprise'."

She frowns. Yes yes, Karen Page, none so blind. She derides herself for it often. Mostly when she looks at Matt and wonders how she could have missed everything. She doesn't need anyone to remind her of this particular shortcoming. She still hasn't forgiven herself for it and probably won't. But this? _This?_ Foggy acting as though she's just told him the sky is blue or that she prefers chocolate cake to vanilla.

"Look Karen," another gulp of coffee. "I was there at the start of this thing. He would only talk to you. He was adamant that it could only be you. And I figured that maybe he just felt more comfortable talking his man pain through with a woman. Most of us are for better or for worse. Call it societal conditioning, call it what you like. It is what it is. Also, let's be real. You're easy on the eyes."

"Foggy..." she huffs and looks away.

"You are," he insists. "And sure, yes, the man was grieving. He wasn't dead."

That hits her a little harder than she expects. And an image of Frank standing in the moonlight, telling her that he's already dead, comes to her. Schoonover cowering at his feet. He meant it and it's the truth. The Punisher _is_ a dead man. Maybe there's hope for Frank Castle though. Maybe she has to have hope for the both of them.

More coffee. She sips her own and it's good and rich.

"And I'm not saying anything was going on then," Foggy continues through a mouthful of pastry. "He was a hot mess. He was a big fucking disaster."

She nods.

He was. He still is.

"But it's been what? Two years now since, well you know," he indicates vaguely at nothing.

It has. Thereabouts anyway.

"I mean I don't know how long these things take. I guess with him nothing is average. But come on Karen. It's not like this is unexpected."

She wants to glare at him. Tell him that yes dammit, yes it is. But she can't because it seems like he's thought this through already, maybe spent as much time pondering it as she has.

"There was that night you disappeared with him. Matt and I spent hours going to every damn place we could think of that he might be hiding. We combed the streets for ages. God, he even had Elektra and that old weirdo with the stick looking for you. Matt was so close to calling Mahoney too but didn't know how he would explain everything. And eventually - it must have been about 5am and we were drinking coffee at that all night diner on 10th - Matt seemed to have an epiphany of some kind. He said that we weren't going to find you and that all we could really do was go back to your place and wait because Frank wouldn't have taken you somewhere we would think to go. Because if we could find you so could someone else and there was no way Frank Castle would take that kind of a risk with you. And I don't know why but I flagged that, there was just something about that seemed … I don't know, important or something.

"And then when you came back the next day... Maybe I was just looking for something. Maybe I just saw what I expected to see. But the way he was looking at you... And the way you looked at him. Your face when he drove off… Karen, I'm not an idiot."

No he's not. She knows he's not. Matt might have sharper senses than all of them with the exception of sight, but Foggy has the advantage of not being blinded by his own hubris. He sees a lot. She's always known this. She knew it when she got out of Frank's truck and saw how he looked at them, how his gaze flitted back and forth between them. She knew one day it would come. She'd be asked for that truth. The whole of it. And nothing but.

And here it is. And she feels to damn grateful.

She pushes her hair out of her eyes, takes a bite of her pastry. It's crisp and sweet and she thinks longingly of that cake she planned to eat all by herself in peaceful celebration of her birthday.

 _If you want God to laugh, tell him your plans._

"So what happened? That night?" he asks. "I'm not asking for details, although you know, if you wanna give them…"

He grins wickedly and she narrows her eyes, purses her lips. She can also do bitch face. She gives him her best one.

"Come on Karen. You sleep with him? I know you didn't do his hair."

She snorts. Shakes her head.

"I didn't sleep with him," and she swears she sees something like disappointment wash over his face. Because apparently Foggy loves this kind of drama. Because apparently the soap opera that her life has become is not melodramatic enough unless it can be written into an episode of _Days of our Lives_. She considers telling him she has an evil twin. Also that she's come back from the dead four times. That she has an imposter robot for a husband. She thinks he'd get the joke. Maybe he'd even like it.

But she doesn't. He might be jovial and candid about this and she might be pretending to be, but she's not. It's a disaster. There really is no way around that.

"Well I guess that's a good thing," he says. His voice is level but she can hear a hint of wistfulness behind it.

She sighs, looks out at the gloom. "Is it? Sometimes I think it may have been easier if I had."

Foggy shrugs again, takes another bite of his pastry and talks to her through the crumbs. "Doubt it. You think Frank Castle could deal with a one night stand? You think _you_ could?"

She shakes her head. He's right. In all honesty she wouldn't and Frank wouldn't have either. He's already fighting himself over this thing because of Maria. So betraying her for a fling would probably be even worse.

Still. Still she can't get rid the image she has of him pushing her face down on that table, his fingers moving between her legs, his breath against her cheek, voice low and gravelly in her ear.

"So what did happen?"

She sighs, sits back in her chair, closes her eyes for a long moment and when she opens them she can see the first fat drops of rain against the window, a mother and her two children under a brightly coloured umbrella, rushing towards the bus stop. An old man on the opposite side of the street walking his small fluffy dog.

"Nothing."

Foggy rolls his eyes and she rushes to explain. She's not hedging, but this is just so fucking hard to put into words. "Everything. Goddamn it Foggy. I don't know. He said some stuff he probably shouldn't have. I said some stuff I probably shouldn't have. And then a few weeks ago he came by to my old apartment. Did some stuff we probably shouldn't have."

She realises how sexual the last sentence sounds. Realises that Foggy is probably picturing her with her tits out and Frank's hands all over her and yeah, it's not like that, but she really doesn't have the energy to try and explain why his knee between her thighs and his hand dipping low to her ass is any different to what Foggy's imagining. It sounds sexual because it was sexual. Because Frank was hard and she was wet and his teeth were on her throat. And then his blood was smeared on her face and he was gone and she had to find a way to wash that off too.

 _Out damned spot, out_ indeed.

Like last night with Claire, her explanations seem so lacking. So thin and feeble as if she's deliberately leaving out the important bits. But she doesn't know how to make what happened at the cabin translate into normal words. She could say she asked him why he came for her and his answer was 'don't you know' and when you put it like that it doesn't sound anything like how it was. And that's before she even gets to the problem she has with spewing these details out to the world. Because at its heart, its core, it's private. It's intimate. It's not something she really wants to share with anyone.

She looks away. The bus has arrived and the woman with the kids is gone. The old man and his dog are still there though and he's been joined by a old woman in a blue dress carrying two shopping bags. They link arms, walk off into the light rain and it all seems so simple. So easy and natural.

She puts her head in her hands, breathes deeply. "This is why I didn't want to tell anyone anything. I don't know what's going on myself."

"Okay okay," Foggy holds up his hands and she can see they're sticky with custard and apricot. "Karen, I'm not judging you. The world throws us curve balls. We do things we can't explain. People come into our lives and we know we should show them the door. We _know_. But we don't. It happens. And you know, honestly, it makes sense that someone like Frank falls for someone like you. It's not even that weird."

He reaches across the table again, pries her hand away from her face, squeezes her fingers.

"Karen, you're my friend. You are my best friend and I say that with no absolutely no exceptions or qualifiers. You are. It doesn't matter what this is that you have going on with Frank. You could fucking marry him and have his babies and I'd still be your friend. And if he hurt you I'd like to say I'd kick his ass but I think we both know that's unlikely. But okay, I'd start practising at least. Take up taekwondo or something. Luckily for me, I think he'd probably chew off his own arms or set himself on fire before he did that. I know he's not a monster."

He takes her other hand and she looks up at him. And God, he's so sweet and he's so fierce and no one on Earth is good enough to deserve him as their friend. No one.

"I'm here Karen. Don't shut me out. No matter what happens. No matter who you fall for or who you fuck or what you do, I'm here. You don't have to be alone. I'm not great with advice and yeah, I'm not going to say this is remotely ideal. But if you want to ride out this wave with him, and I don't think we'd be having this conversation if you didn't, I'll be right here beside you."

She thought she would cry. She really did. She pictured this moment in her mind and it always ended with her sobbing into his shirt. It's what she does. She cries when things hurt and she doesn't think that makes her weak. Doesn't know how it could when often it feels like she has no control of it either way. When the tears want out they will come. But they don't this time. Because she's _Karen Page: Holder Back Of Tears Under Extreme Duress_. She has fucking earned it. So she slides her chair around to Foggy's side of the table and puts her arms around him, rests against his shoulder and feels his hands warm and strong on her back.

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"Nothing to be sorry for," he whispers, strokes her hair and then leans his head on hers. "Besides I'm kind of proud of you."

"You are?"

"Oh yeah," and the old, salty Foggy is back.

She pulls away, eyes him suspiciously. He has the same look on his face that Claire did the previous night with her semi-feigned concern for the diversion of Frank's blood, her promises not to snitch to Matt.

Karen tilts her head, narrows her eyes in what she hopes is a suitably ridiculous approximation of a warning. Apparently it is because Foggy legitimately giggles.

"You got something you wanna say to me Nelson?"

He shrugs, look away. Pretends he doesn't want to answer. Fake hedging.

She purses her lips, narrows her eyes. "Out with it."

"Just that it's pretty impressive that last night you left Josie's with Matt and this morning you tell me Frank Castle is in your bed. Like _damn_ girl you move fast."

She punches him playfully and he puts up his hands in mock surrender but they're both laughing.

"Hey I'm just calling it like I see it."

"Sure," she says pulling him into another hug.

Because Karen fucking Page moves so fucking fast. Because that's how she rolls. One man to the next. A new beau every week. She has marriage proposals coming out of her ears. A lover in Paris and another in Milan, two in Madrid.

"I'm here Karen," he says softly, suddenly serious again. "I work too much and too hard. But I'm here. I'll make time for you."

She nods against his shoulder, turns and kisses his cheek. Holds him close again. Stays like that a while until he shifts and pulls away.

"Okay, let's go before people think I'm the next notch on Karen Page's belt. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

She snorts as she lets him go and he grins at her.

"Maneater," he teases. "Maneater with your hellhound. Maneater that has the fucking Punisher whipped."

She shakes her head, picks up her purse and Foggy drains his coffee and follows her to the door.

It's drizzling lightly as they walk back to her car. They talk about Marci. He confesses he didn't see it coming. That not only did Marci seem so out of his league, and also so incredibly awful, that the first time they slept together he wasn't sure whether to celebrate or commiserate. He thought of it as a pity fuck but suddenly there she was again. And again. And they stopped fucking long enough to start talking and every damn thing changed. And suddenly he just stopped being intimidated by her and they haven't looked back. She kicks his ass, he admits that. But he gives as good as he gets.

"I want it to work Karen. I didn't realise how much I did until I thought about it ending," he turns to her as they get to her car. "I want to make her happy."

"You do Foggy, you do."

He smiles, glances towards the front door of his building and she can see flecks of light rain on his face. "The hellhound can stay as long as she needs to. Her dad can come pick her up whenever he gets his lazy punishing ass out of your bed."

 _Her dad._

She smirks at that.

He hugs her again. "You take care. And for fuck's sake Karen, call. Anything you need."

"I will," she says, handing him Luna's kibble and the note of Frank's overly detailed instructions before sliding behind the wheel and twisting the key in the ignition. "And thanks again. I don't know what I would have done without you."

He waves it away. "It's fine. We're happy to help."

She grins at him, starts backing out of the driveway when he suddenly walks forward and put a hand on the bonnet. She stops, rolls down her window, pinpricks of rain against her skin.

He looks a little unsure, he's chewing his lip and not quite meeting her eyes and she wonders what this could possibly be about. What new topic they could start debating that could have him this concerned.

"Karen," he starts and then looks away.

"It's okay, Foggy."

He frowns and she can see he's trying to find the right words,

"Spit it out," she says. There's really nothing he could say that could be that bad or delicate that he needs to stress this much about asking her.

He looks back at her.

"Karen, you said you think Frank Castle is falling in love with you," and when she nods he barrels on. "You falling back?"

And it hurts. It hurts so much. And she wonders if she has her own little monster trying to break her ribs to climb out of her chest, pull her heart out with it, squeeze it until it bursts and watch her blood dry on the asphalt. And it shouldn't. These things shouldn't hurt like this. But she has no one to ease it, no one to help her feel that exhilaration, to take away the fear.

She shrugs. Once again it's the best she has and Foggy seems to understand. He reaches into the car, touches her shoulder and she covers his hand with her own.

"Call." It's an instruction. It's direct but there's also a hint of pleading in it. Begging.

She nods.

"I love you Foggy," and she means it. Never a truer word was spoken.

"I love you too Karen."

The tears make their appearance at the same time as the rain stops, as she pulls into the main street, as she passes the old couple and their little dog, seemingly untouched or oblivious to the weather, but holding onto each other tightly and sharing a brown paper bag of cookies.

xxx

"So she's safe?" he's asking around mouthful of pasta. "They know about her food?"

It's quiet and uncomfortably warm in her apartment, despite the fact that the windows are wide open. Outside the late afternoon air is still heavy and charged, black clouds making less-than-idle threats of rain. She wishes it would just happen, that the storm would come to wash the mugginess away, to stop this feeling of being stifled, of the air being too thick to breathe. Or maybe that's just her. Maybe that's just the micro-climate in her apartment where Frank Castle is taking all the oxygen and slowly, unintentionally suffocating them both.

And that's not really a fair comparison to make. But it is what it is.

"Ma'am?" he asks, touching her arm. "They know not to give her anything else?"

She's tempted to say no, that Marci and Foggy have no clue. That she told them Luna can only eat chicken bones and ice cream, because of course they don't know. So much has changed since he asked the same question three minutes ago.

The fact is though, this level of concern, although not surprising, is quite touching. And there's something in it that gives her hope. Or something a lot like it. So no, it's not the time for snark. Not much anyway.

She sits back on the bed, sighs, gives him an indulgent smile. "Yes, she's fine. I saw her off myself. You should be more concerned about prying her back from Marci when you're well. She took quite a shine to her."

His mouth twists into a smirk and she can see that it hurts him to do it. His face is still swollen and bruised, the scabs dyed a sickly yellow from whatever Claire put on them earlier but she smiles with him anyway. And this, him in front of her, broken and bloody, but trying hard to put her at ease, to smile for her, feels so much like that night at the diner, that part of her wants to turn around and wait for a gang of gun-toting assholes to walk through her front door, open fire on everything and everyone in sight.

But, she reminds herself, they'd have to get through Irene first. And she's not betting on that. Not betting that Irene herself doesn't have a Kalishnikov hidden under the front desk.

Hey, weirder things have happened.

The big bad Punisher is in her bed.

 _Don't you know?_

He finishes the pasta and makes to stand up but she shoves him back down against the pillows, gives him what she hopes is a withering look and takes the bowl away and sets it down on the side table. He sighs at her, tries to tell her that he's fine, can't she see. He can move and walk and everything and she needs to stop listening to Nurse Temple and her ludicrous notions that he needs to rest up.

She tells him to shut up. He came to her and she's fixing this and he doesn't get a say. To stop making things harder than they already are. And when he's quiet and glaring at her she says she wants a "Yes Ma'am".

She gets it. It's grudging and slightly sarcastic, even a little childish, But she gets it.

He was sleeping when she came back, Pickle attached to his side like velcro, unwilling to be moved. Claire said he'd be okay. That he's strong enough to shower himself, that his blood pressure is low but that's not unexpected. That he needs to stay put. Rest. Eat. No exertion. Also that her date wants to go out again and was apparently unfazed by the fact that she was in the shower with a naked man when he called. So all good on that front at least. You know, the important stuff.

After she left, Karen did what she could to amuse herself. She read, she watched a bad movie on her laptop, worked a little on some story ideas that Ellison was likely to sneer at, and then suggest slight variations on, before telling her to go off and write them all. She tried hard not to let the sound of his breathing distract her. Not to sit at his bedside like some creepy, clingy girlfriend without knowledge of appropriate boundaries.

It was okay. Pleasant even. And then he woke up.

And that's not to say it's unpleasant now. Because it's not, but he's never been easy. And he doesn't like being laid up and cared for. They've already fought about the sleeping arrangements despite the fact that he can't possibly bed down on the couch without firstly pulling his stitches, secondly being terribly uncomfortable with all his bashes and bruises and thirdly, bleeding all over it. And she really doesn't want that, because she bought it new and it could well be the most expensive thing she owns.

He's backed down now though. He always does with her.

They also fought about food because he apparently wants to pay her for his meals. He's backed off on that point too but she suspects it's going to come around again. And again.

She takes a moment to give him the once over. He's still really bruised and she thinks he will be for a while. His ribs and belly marked blue and purple, his shoulders grazed and lazy, loose knife wounds across his torso. She won't think about what that means, what they did to him.

He's also clean, much cleaner than before and he doesn't stink of blood or dirt anymore, his bandages only slightly discoloured. She'll need to change them a little later - Claire left instructions - but she's pretty sure it's not rocket science. She can handle it.

 _Karen Page: intrepid reporter, lover of vigilantes and holder back of tears under extreme duress. Also bandage changer in training._ Depending on how she does later, she might drop the "in training" part.

There's also a stash of antibiotics and painkillers that Claire left on the bedside table with a warning not to ask how she got them. She said she can't be a saint without being the worst kind of sinner too. She has her resources, she has means. She's been dragged into this and there's no point doing it if she can't do it properly. And to do it properly she needs proper medication.

All Karen needs to know is that he's fine. Weak but fine. He'll live.

 _Don't ask. Don't tell._

Yeah, Claire's a saint. They couldn't do this without her. And it still kills Karen how much they all expect her to risk.

"Hot in here," he says wiping at his brow and wincing as his fingers snag against a scab on his forehead.

"Yeah," she says turning to look out the window again. This storm is going to break. It has to. You can't threaten something this long and then just walk away. Something has to give. Anything.

He rubs at his head again and she pulls his hand away sternly. It's going to hurt, it's going to scar and she doesn't know for sure yet but she still thinks pretty might be important. Still thinks it might be something he wants to hold onto. If not for himself then maybe for her. Her and whatever this thing is between them that allows them to touch and to hold and pretend that nothing crosses some invisible line in the sand.

"Here," she says, pressing a cool cloth against his skin.

He doesn't flinch even though he should. He really really should. It must hurt. It has to. She wonders if he's just indulging her now, pretending it's not sore, but that's even more illogical than the reality of this. He never knew how badly she was hurt that night at the cabin, that his hand rested against her bruise's blooming center - it's most tender part - and it didn't hurt. That it took weeks to fade, her skin going from a stain of red and purple to a corpse-like blue and then a sickly green. That anyone or anything else that touched it - herself included - sent fiery little spasms of pain all over her body. That for weeks she couldn't bear to wear anything even slightly tight or clingy. And yet when his whole big hand rubbed hard against it, it just felt warm and soothing.

But he never saw it. Because he never turned around. He never saw her standing there, body frozen but nipples hard, thighs quivering, his name in the back of her throat, lust in the back of her mouth.

And she needs to stop indulging this. It didn't happen. More than enough did though, more than enough to analyse and dissect, more than enough to keep her confused and lost with longing and wanting. But she can't stop her mind from wandering. And it does. Lord help her but it does.

The fantasy changes occasionally, which in some ways surprises her as she's never been given to this type of thing. Mostly though, he bends her over that table, drives into her hard and fast from behind, but there are other times, fleeting moments when he pushes her back into the wall, hikes her legs around his waist and pins her between himself and the hard wood, splinters in her back as he kisses her messily and swallows her breath. She wonders if he thinks about her this way too. She doubts he has such vivid fantasies about the cabin, but maybe the night on the roof, maybe he imagines having her there under the night sky, her dress high and her stockings laddered, his lips and teeth at her throat.

It doesn't matter though. Not a jot. Because he was a perfect gentleman. In every way. Because he didn't turn around. But oh God if he had.

 _If he had._

"Karen?"

Her eyes snap to his face. It still surprises her those rare occasions he uses her name. There's something about it that feels intimate in a way she can't really define. "Ma'am" complicates things. "Karen" hits them right out of ballpark and turns them unrecognisable and leaves her floating in the dark, feeling around for something to hold onto that isn't him and isn't his voice.

And she can't keep doing this. Not like this.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," his voice is low and he reaches out and touches her shoulder, his hand heavy and hot through the thin material of her shirt. "Not just for sorting out Luna, but for saving me. You didn't have to do that."

She lets out a dry laugh. He's insane. He must be. To imagine she could find him like she did and just leave him to die.

"Yeah I kinda did."

She stiffens as he runs his thumb along the ridge of her collarbone, as his fingers press against her flesh. He shouldn't be doing this. He knows he shouldn't. Because despite the heat of the evening, despite this monstrous nightmare where the rain refuses to fall and the air refuses to let it, a shiver runs through her and her skin prickles under his hand.

She could pull away. She could look away too, but she doesn't do that. He knows she doesn't. She never has from him. It's not really defiance. Sure, it may have started as a test for herself, the absurd notion that if she could outstare The Punisher then nothing on Earth could scare her. Except now she knows him and he's not all that scary. Not to her at least. And yet ... and yet there's still something that keeps her eyes on his face, bruised and battered though it may be. Still something that keeps her staring at him, watching his lips, the way he clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth.

For the first time she wonders if maybe he does have a sort of power here. A type he might not even necessarily be aware of.

"After the last time…" His thumb brushes her skin again and he trails off and suddenly looks away, drops his hand back into his lap.

She's mildly surprised he brought that up, wouldn't have thought he would. Her on the roof, his hand so close to her breast, maneuvering her so that she was bearing down hard on his knee. Almost letting her fall. Leaving her crying. She would have thought he'd want to avoid acknowledging that particular elephant in the room. After all, it seems he has a whole herd to choose from.

Thing is, in her head, despite her continued insistence that he's both good and bad, poison and cure, calm and rage, she still has trouble seeing the dead man and the husband side by side. And while she knows they are both true, that they both exist, that they are both as much a part of Frank Castle as her warring heart and mind are part of her, she sometimes forgets that he's been down the road of love and romance before. That he would recognise a version of these feelings for what they are because he's not the emotionless warring machine the world thinks he is. That there is so much more to him than someone who kills, who murders, who _punishes_. There's a man inside who is kind and sweet, who loves, who needs, who feels. And that's the side he shows her the most. That's how she knows him. That's why he's lying her bed and it's why she lets him touch her and look at her in ways she'd balk at with anyone else.

They're going to need to talk about this. Oh God, they are, because it can't carry on like this. Like the coming storm outside, this too has to break.

"We don't need to worry about that now Frank," she says.

He looks up at her again and it's that same suspicious look he's given her before. Like he's trying to figure out her angle, see through some subterfuge. It kills her that she might well be the person he trusts most in the world. And this is somehow still where she is.

"Besides," she says lightly, putting the cloth down. "I wasn't going to leave you out there to die just for being a jerk. My ego isn't that fragile."

He barks out a dry laugh.

"You should have though. Should have left me on my ass."

She rolls her eyes and reaches up to touch his face, hesitates a moment, and then decides to hell with it, and runs her fingers through his hair. It's smooth and clean, grown in a bit more, the buzzcut slowly disappearing under softer downier hair. He closes his eyes, tilts his head towards her hand.

"Frank," she says softly. "Let's stop this. I'm not going to shoot you or leave you to die or anything else. I think we've established that. I think we know you don't want to hurt me."

She shifts forward on the bed a little and she's barely touched him but his skin prickles.

"And that I don't want to hurt you," she whispers, lets her words hang there.

They both feel it. The change of mood. How the air in the room, though still muggy, now feels charged and alive, too thick and too thin all at once. It's not that it's horrible but it's expectant, Unfinished.

"Come on Karen," he says and his voice is low and husky and she thinks of Claire and her concern about the direction of his blood flow, the way she'd reiterated it earlier before she left. And yeah maybe it was more of a joke than anything else. But still.

"You can't want me here. The Punisher. In your home. Your bed. You can't tell me that doesn't bother you."

She slides her hand to his cheek, his stubble rough against her palm and he opens his eyes - dark, bruised, bloodied - his pupils sucking in all the light, the same way he seems to suck in all the air.

"Yeah," she says slowly, evenly. "I'm shaking in my boots."

His mouth twists into a grin, which he tries to stifle by biting his lip. He's unsuccessful. And it's wonderful. And it takes some of that tension out of the air. Not much, but some.

She pulls her hand away, sits back. Not now. They don't need to go here now. They have time.

"How are you feeling?" she asks. "Claire said she gave you a lot of painkillers."

He sighs. "Tired. No one drilled a hole through my foot though. Guess it wasn't that kind of party."

And she's genuinely surprised by the ball of rage that suddenly manifests in her chest. How she has to bite her lip not to say anything. God, he's not good. Not even close by any moral scale the world uses to judge. And yet he is. He _is_ good and he's lost and he's lonely and the world has been more than shitty to him and she wants it to pay. She wants it to atone for stealing his life from him. She once told Foggy to imagine his whole life fuelled by one single moment. To imagine that you get less than a second every morning before you realise your nightmare is real and you live in hell. Sure she may have been talking more about herself but it doesn't change anything. The universe was, and continues to be, a remorseless fucking bitch to this man. And it's not fair.

"What happened Frank? Who did this to you?"

He frowns.

"Thought you Florence Nightingale types didn't want to know that kind of stuff."

For some reason that pisses her off and it must show on her face because he hurries to continue.

"I went looking for your boy," he starts and she can't help it but Matt's name is out of her mouth before she can stop it. It's ridiculous, of course. There's no reason Frank would need to go looking for Matt. He knows exactly where to find him. They all do. Still, the way he talks about her and Matt, like he knows something she doesn't and they're a done deal, like he still believes that is where she belongs, bothers her. It's an easy enough mistake to make, considering the phrasing.

"No," he says slowly but that suspicious look is back on his face. The one that doesn't trust her, that's searching for her lie. It's silly though. She has no doubts that he's extremely well aware of her day-to-day comings and goings. That if she had rekindled whatever it was she had with Matt - which incidentally _is what he told her to do_ \- he would know.

"Oh."

"Smirnov," he says that slowly too and she knows he's watching for her reaction. She's just not sure why.

"I went back to that warehouse on tenth. You know the one."

She nods.

It seems oddly difficult for him to talk about this and he doesn't have much in the way of details. Seems like whoever was there got the jump on him early. Asshole with the _kyoketsu-shoge_ again, which she's sure is Nobu. Matt thinks so too. He told her as much the day she came back from Frank's cabin. That somehow this asshole of assholes was still alive despite having no right to be. She's tried to figure out the hows and whys of it but it's not like she can waltz up to Ellison and ask him to let her launch an investigation into undead ninjas. Well, not yet at least. He does give her a lot of leeway.

Frank says there was a lot of noise, a lot of flashing light. He does remember the cages though and a lot of beds, like a hospital ward, stringy curtains dividing them. Not much more. And then he was fighting and killing and the world turned to fire. He says they snuck up on him, that they were so quiet even Red wouldn't have heard them. He killed as many as he could but it wasn't good enough and the _kyoketsu-shoge_ cut him to pieces, left him for dead on the floor. But he wasn't. And he dragged himself across town to her. She knows the rest.

And she tries not be as horrified as she is. Forces herself to focus on the fact that he's here. And alive. And going to be fine.

He stops talking and looks up at her, shrugs.

"Seems you can't kill a dead man."

It's meant to be flippant but it punches her in the gut again.

"No Frank, no. Don't say that."

He glances at Pickle, runs a hand through her fur and she purrs loudly.

"True though."

She shakes her head. "It's not."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't believe her and she wonders if he ever will. Wonders how much she'll have to fight to get him there. It's not that he thinks he is dead, it's that he _wants_ to be. _Has_ to be in order to continue his war with the world.

Because dead men don't have codes, they don't have morals. Consequences don't matter. And even she can see the irony in that. The flaw in this plan. The fact that he has to create this fantasy for himself is the very thing that means he _is_ alive. That things like codes and morals matter. That pretty is important.

She says his name. He looks away. He always does.

"You don't get it Karen."

He's doesn't sound angry, not even exasperated. Just resigned. Weary.

"Try me."

He says nothing. And it occurs to her that this is a little unfair. He's laid up, wounded, high on painkillers and antibiotics. He's not his best. But then again it's not like he's been fair to her either. Not like any part of the last few months has been fair. Not the cabin, not the confession, not the lattes, not the roof and his knee between her legs, his hands pawing at her. And certainly not what came after. And then what came after that. Last night. Today. Now.

Maybe they don't hurt each other. But they wound each other. They mark each other. She's both wise and stupid enough to imagine there's a difference.

The silence stretches long and taut between them and eventually she has to break it. She shouldn't, she knows this, but she has to.

And she breaks everything else with it too.

"Frank, it's not like you enjoy this. It's not like killing people is fun for you."

She knows it's the wrong thing to say before she's even said it. Knows that on the scale of Things Karen Page Could Say That Are Guaranteed To Be Wrong that is only marginally out ranked by insulting his wife or his children.

And she's cursing inwardly because she realises, even as the words are coming out of her mouth, that she promised she'd never do this. Maybe it wasn't a deal with him even, but it certainly was one with herself. She's not sure when it happened. She could say it was the night at the cabin, that her lips on his neck and her fingers twined through his and her solemn acceptance of his confession was a turning point, the moment when she realised that she could never argue him out of this. But she thinks it was before then. Maybe when she didn't shoot him in her apartment, maybe even the day she shoved his family photo in front of his face and demanded that he look at it. That he _feel_ it.

She felt she owed it to him not to ask. Apparently he did too. But it's done and it's too late to take it back. Same way it's too late to take back everything else.

"No Karen," and his voice is hard. Harder than he's ever used with her before and it feels like he's slapped her. "It's not _fun_ for me."

"Frank, I…" she has no idea what she's going to say, so she stops, doesn't say anything.

He sighs, wipes at his brow again, grinds his teeth. It's so stifling in here and she's pretty sure it's not just the weather.

"Let's not do this," he says. "Come on. Let's not."

But from the look in his eyes, they already have. And they can't go back. Can't undo it.

He blinks rapidly, wipes at his face, swallows. Tears? She's not sure, she can't see.

"I'm sorry," she says softly, "I shouldn't have…"

"It's okay," he interrupts and she flags that, because it's another lie and it feels like her heart is splitting in two.

He looks around, shifts uncomfortably and she knows he's wishing he could leave, that there was an escape from this. From her.

"I'm going to get some more sleep," he says and she nods. "We can sort out the bandages later."

It's a dismissal in its own way. Not that there's anywhere he can send her other than out of his sight.

She stands. Outside thunder rolls again and there's a spray of light drizzle but the air stays thick and static. Heavy.

Inside, Frank Castle turns onto his side and breathes deeply, takes the last of the little air that's left and pulls it into oblivion with him.

xxx

Again, she doesn't bother to pull the couch out. She doesn't think she's going to sleep much tonight anyway, so she just grabs a blanket from the linen closet and drapes it over herself. Pickle, usually incredibly intrigued by laps and boobs and anything else she can make herself comfortable on, stays put at Frank's side. And that's okay. As long as she doesn't climb on him she can do what she likes. And if Karen is honest, it's no real surprise that one ball of rage and destruction has found kinship in another. Pickle walked off her balcony and into her life and oh God, but that is a thing. Pretending not to see the pattern is both delusional and unhelpful.

She switches on the dimmest light in the room, a godawful thing that she found at a yard sale a few years ago that only casts light on itself. She's wanted to get rid of it but for some reason she can't. So if she's honest, and apparently tonight is the night for that (or not), she's hoping Pickle will smash it one day and save her the trouble. Either way it's a good light for when you don't actually want to see much but you also don't want to sit in the dark all alone.

Even if Frank Castle is mostly naked and in her bed. And pissed as all hell at her.

 _Because wow universe, wow. Just how fucking sick and twisted do you need to pull shit like this?_

Yeah, she was stupid. She knows this. They'll get past it. She knows that too. But still, she doesn't like it. She doesn't like standing on opposite sides of the fence with him, feeling this distance lurching between them.

She sighs, rubs her eyes. She is so tired. Exhausted actually. But again she finds she's scared to sleep.

She shifts under the blanket and her foot knocks something hard and smooth, a sharp corner digging into her skin. She leans forward, pulls Matt's gift out from where it's become wedged between the cushions and the side of the couch. The bows are a little crumpled and the colours of the wrapping don't shine as brightly as they did in the bar.

She turns it over, there's a card attached and she takes it out of the envelope. It's a cartoon monkey in a party hat and she wonders how that conversation went down in the store. Wonders if Matt asked some assistant to find him a goofy card and then write it for him. He probably did. Matt is nothing if not charming. Too charming.

She glances over to where Frank sleeps. At least she doesn't have that problem here.

No, the problems here are all in a league of their own.

The card is simple. To the point. No hidden messages, no loaded words.

 _Dear Karen_

 _Wishing you a great day and all the best for the year ahead._

 _Love Matt_

She's grateful. She probably wouldn't have done too well if there'd been more. The gift though. The gift is something else.

She knew it was a book. Even if the shape and the weight hadn't given it away, Matt had mentioned the woman in the bookstore. But she thought it would be something simple. The latest John le Carre or Stephen King. Maybe a cookbook or some pretentious coffee table photography collection. But it's not.

It's a Bukowski collection, plain blue hardback with silver writing. Selected works apparently.

And there's a moment that she thinks it's a very weird choice for a gift and then she doesn't. She wouldn't describe herself as a fan. Poetry in general is something she finds a little fanciful. And further than the old stock favourites she had to study in school - Robert Frost and his road not taken, Sylvia Plath and her ode to mushrooms - she hasn't really revisited that part of her youth. And Bukowski, well Bukowski is all of those wonderful but also dreadful things that turn some people into believers and others into detractors. He's the clichéd hard drinking, straight talking, pining artist struggling to get his words onto the page, desperate for connection and understanding, but zealously believing no one ever can. And yeah, in that light it makes sense.

She opens the book. Inside Matt's written _What matters most is how well you walk through the fire_.

It resonates but probably not in the way he anticipated.

It's sweet though. It is. She's not going to deny that. It's even thoughtful. She's not going to pull this apart. She's just going to enjoy it. After all, who doesn't like reading angry poetry by angry, misunderstood old men?

Frank mumbles something that she can't quite make out. He's doesn't seem distressed so she leaves it, puts the book on the coffee table and switches off the light in case that's bothering him. And then she lies there and stares at the ceiling, the dark shadows, the reflection of light from police cruisers as they supposedly protect the city from crime. And if that were true her and Matt would probably be pursuing that very ordinary relationship and Frank would be with Maria and his children and not at war with the world.

And ordinary is wonderful when your life is anything but.

She turns onto her side. In the gloom she notices the stain of Frank's hand against the wall, the way it's streaked downwards as he lost his balance. His blood on her hands, her clothes, her walls. She'll have to wash it, paint over it. But there's a part of her that thinks it won't change much, that she'll still be able to see it.

She'll _know_.

And suddenly her eyes are so heavy and she feels weak and weary to her bones. She imagines the adrenalin seeping out of her pores in a sparkling silver mist, rising above her and disappearing into his blood.

She walked through this fire. She has no doubt she will walk through another.

Under his blood, in the cloying wet heat, she tries so hard to sleep.

xxx

It doesn't rain for for three more days. On the fourth it pours.

* * *

"I think I'm going to have a heartattack and die from that surprise" is from Disney's _Aladdin_.

"What matters most is how well you walked through the fire" is the title of a Bukowski collection.


	6. When love is a gun

**So as always this is turning out to be a little longer than expected. Initially this chapter and the next were going to be one chapter but it started to feel too bitty and all over the place and I thought it might annoy people because it was annoying the fuck out of me. So I split them at what, to me at least, seemed like a reasonable place for a division.**

 **The next chapter, which is really the crux of this series should be up by Saturday unless something entirely unforeseen happens. It's written, it's edited, it's ready to go basically.**

 **Also no, this is not the last part of the series, we have a way to go yet. Quite a way actually.**

 **Also, in case anyone hasn't noticed I am playing a little fast and loose with the timeline.**

 **Anyway, yeah, this chapter and the next are a bit of a rollercoaster (or they were for me at least). Hope you all enjoy the ride.**

 **Chapter title is from HIM _The Funeral of Hearts_. It's a very good song to get you in the right headspace for the rest of this fic also.**

* * *

Wednesday. Another night spent tossing and turning on the couch. Another night that she's lucky if she grabbed two hours sleep.

She's read about sleep deficit. How you need to pay back the hours you lose, how after you lose too much it stops mattering. She guesses at the end of the day it's just another debt she owes. And she thinks the universe is going to come knocking soon.

She yawns, sits up and waits for Pickle to realise she's awake. As usual, the cat is pressed into Frank's side. Even in the early morning light she can see his arm is draped around her, her little furry black head resting on his bicep.

Two fiery balls of rage asleep in her bed.

A glance outside. It's darker than it should be at this hour but that's because those eternal stormclouds are only getting blacker, still apparently holding back the rain as best they can. She imagines them filling up and waiting, waiting, waiting before they drown everyone and everything. Matt would probably say something about Noah and arks and promises, tell her the story like she doesn't know it already, take it further to explain cultural flood myths or something. Gilgamesh, Bergelmir, Deucalion. She doesn't know. There are so many.

She's not religious, at least not in the same way that Matt is, but she does wonder though if this is some form of divine punishment, this wet, stifling heat, the air too thick to breathe and the way the whole world feels heavy and sluggish. She wonders what Hell's Kitchen is being punished for, although the answer seems obvious. Clue's in the name and all.

She stands. Pickle seems to have zero intention of abandoning Frank's arms and she can't really say she blames her. If it was offered to her, she probably couldn't give it up either. Even though she did.

They both did.

Her back aches as she stretches, hard knots in her shoulders, her spine, a tight ball of muscle in her lower back that briefly brings tears to her eyes. Sleeping on the couch honestly feels like she's torturing herself slowly to death every night. Frank's been hounding her incessantly to swap with him, swearing up and down that he'll be fine and he's slept on far worse and while she doesn't doubt that latter, she knows the former is a lie.

He can still barely make it to the bathroom and back and most of the time she thinks it's only pure stubbornness that keeps him going. That and the fear that it'll just make things weirder between them. And he's right. It probably wouldn't help. Because yeah, they're kind of over the little spat from Saturday. Kind of. It's hard to stay mad when you're living on top of one another with little room for escape. And the truth is she doesn't think he wants to stay angry with her. He might hold grudges like no one on Earth but even he knows pettiness when he sees it.

But then, on the other hand, things have been strained. He's withdrawn considerably and while he's not exactly derisive or rude, he's distant. It's as if he's desperately trying to recapture that same stoicism and willpower he used to walk off the roof and leave her crying and empty, the same stubbornness that kept him away from her for as long as it did. She can sense it breaking though, the cracks forming and she can't tell whether that's good or bad. Either way there are no more slip ups, no more gentle touches, no lingering gazes except for when he's sure she's not looking. And sometimes not even then. She'd know. She just would.

She glances over at him again. His bruises have started to fade very slightly, the cuts on his face healing. He'll be pretty again. Pretty in all his murderous rage, his righteous vengeance, pretty in that way that Claire thinks impossible and would scoff at. But then again, Claire has a type. And her type isn't Frank Castle.

Karen's starting to wonder if anybody's is. If anybody's should be.

Sometimes, she feels very alone.

She puts on the coffee, showers, does her make-up, dresses, brushes her hair. Even so, she looks wan and drawn in the mirror. Older than she should, bags under her eyes.

So many things, _so many things_ in this last year to age her.

Her colleague covered in blood and dead on her floor. James Wesley's corpse twitching as she shot him. And then shot him again. And again. Matt and his Big Reveal.

Frank Castle in her bed.

Good things too though.

Claire and her friendship that means more than anything. Foggy and his love, his loyalty. Her job. Ellison. Pickle.

Frank Castle in her bed.

She shakes her head, looks at the closed bathroom door as if she can see through it and find him, sleeping soundly under her blankets.

No, it's not how she pictured it inasmuch as she ever allowed herself to picture it. But she guesses that's what happens when the person you feel most connected to in the whole world fell into your arms because he couldn't keep standing, because his lifeblood was running out and you were the only person who could put it back.

He's The Punisher, it was never going to be all sunshine and rainbows.

But maybe there could have been some at least. Maybe the universe didn't need to be such a fucking bitch about this all. She could do with a break. She knows he could too.

She sighs, adds a bit of gloss to her lips. It doesn't do much, but pretty is important and on a whim she grabs a silver necklace with a black rose pendant out of her jewellery box and puts it on. It's not something she wears often on account of her considerable worry that she might lose it. But maybe today the risk is worth it. Maybe today she needs to act pretty to feel it.

He's awake when she gets back into the lounge, lying on his side, staring out of the window. And again it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

"Looks like another gorgeous spring day."

She tries to sound light and nonchalant but it comes out all wrong. No doubt, he can hear it in her voice, the disappointment, the resignation. The fact that she's not only talking about the weather. She can't be.

He nods. Doesn't say much, but she thinks that maybe she's supposed to understand something from it, even though she doesn't. She's too tired to figure out hidden meanings and cryptic messages.

She brings him a mug of coffee, black and bitter and entirely not how she could imagine drinking it. Claire has eventually relented on the caffeine intake, initially telling him to avoid it entirely and only yesterday softening and saying he could have one small cup a day. Apparently in Punisher-speak "one small cup" means constant and consistent large doses of the stuff because when she got home the previous evening, Karen's filter coffee supply was depleted by at least half.

She sits down on the bed next to him, a little further away than before, and sips her own, takes a moment to study him in the dim light.

Something's up, she can see it in the hard clench of his jaw, the way he's chugging his coffee without tasting it. He's barely looked at Pickle and that's unusual. He loves Pickle. Loves her with the same strange fierceness that he loves all things cute and furry and vulnerable and she's always found something profoundly comforting in that. Something that lets her believe he can't be all bad, hasn't completely given himself over to the darkness.

"You okay?" she asks.

He doesn't answer for a while. Drinks more of his coffee. Glares at the gloomy day outside.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "I'm just tired of being laid up like this."

And that's another thing. He might be reserved but he talks about leaving a lot, about how he'll be better soon and he'll get out of her hair. She sometimes thinks he's talking more to himself than to her. Reminding himself that this is going to come to an end and trying so hard to convince them both that that is what he wants.

It hurts though. Hurts worse than any cut or bruise. And despite the fact that she wouldn't want to live in a world where she doesn't know what she does, a world where he never took her away to the mountains and held her and kissed her shoulder and whispered his darkest secret into her ear, she catches herself longing for a simpler time. And when she realises that "A Simpler Time" means him throwing herself on top of her to protect her from bullets, of him dragging her to a diner at the end of the world and then shooting that very same world apart, of him murdering a man all but in front of her, she has to wonder if she's truly starting to lose any grasp she has on reality. She thinks of Matt and how he wanted to go back to a time before this, and she thinks maybe she understands things a little better than she did when they last spoke.

Who knows though? She suspects that a world where Frank Castle doesn't love her would be easier to exist in than the one where he does. And that in itself has nothing to do with how he is now.

"Claire said…" she starts.

"I know what Nurse Temple said," he interrupts, but it's not unkind, and seemingly worried that she might think it was he rushes to continue. "I know you're both trying to help."

She nods, sips more coffee, notices how he seems to have slipped out of the conversation again, how he's staring outside and grinding his teeth. There's a lot of rage in his gaze but there always is, but there's something else as well. Anticipation? Longing maybe? She can't be sure.

She gets that, to a large degree, he is something of a caged beast right now. That he'd be pacing the floor and hitting his head against the walls if he were strong enough to do so.

Again she feels like there's something she should know, something she's missing, but she's so exhausted that she's honestly not sure that her mind isn't playing tricks on her. She barely has enough brainpower to get her through the day at work, so figuring out Frank Castle's secrets is unlikely to be something she'll just be able to do on the fly.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asks and he shrugs. It's not an unusual response, especially when he's maudlin. Or being a man baby.

(Okay, so the joke's getting old but it makes her feel more in control of her own thoughts and emotions to keep it going. Makes this whole situation seem less frightening and more like a minor inconvenience than the slow exercise in destroying her soul that it is.)

She rolls a shoulder, reaches up to rub her neck and it feels like someone has replaced her spine with barbwire.

He frowns, gives her that halfway vulgar once over he's so good at, cocks his head.

"Ma'am," his voice is thick, husky. "Ma'am, I ain't taking no for an answer anymore. You're sleeping in the bed tonight."

"Frank…"

"No, this is stupid. You have to," he says and reaches out, fingers only brushing her wrist before he catches himself and withdraws like she's burned him, hand awkwardly settling on Pickle who has yet to budge.

He looks away briefly, embarrassed and then seems to overcome that and swing back to her.

"You need to rest. Proper rest and sleep. Not whatever it is you do on that couch."

He's right. She knows he is. Depending on how long he's still around (and she discards his estimate that it'll only be another two or three days) it could be weeks before she gets a good night's sleep. And frankly, that's not sustainable. She has to drive, she has to write, she has to appear present and engaged enough to keep her job and the subsequent respect that comes with it, even if she doesn't really feel she deserves it. Ellison is a decent person, but she's not convinced even he is going to find it in himself to be forgiving if she falls asleep on the job regularly.

The problem, of course, is that she's pretty sure the couch is going to prove as awful for Frank as it is for her. It'll do nothing to help him heal and probably set him back even further. But then again, he can still have the bed during the day.

She shakes her head. Looks up at him.

"We can see tonight," she says and he rolls his eyes.

"You don't have to be a fucking martyr Karen," he says. "Red has the Hell's Kitchen area covered."

Despite herself she laughs and he smiles with her. It's not that she takes any great pleasure in deriding Matt. She doesn't. At heart he is a good person, a very good person who puts himself on the line over and over again to ensure the safety of everyone around him. But there's something about Frank and his no nonsense, slightly scornful approach to Matt and his righteousness, his sermonising, and yes, his little boy pajamas that amuses her. Encourages her even to stop seeing Matt and subsequently the Devil of Hell's Kitchen as some kind of enigma and just as a man who fucks up, makes mistakes and can be a supremely shitty friend.

"Okay," she says lightly. "It should only take one night and you'll be begging me for the bed again."

He purses his lips and she knows he's busy checking some internal stubbornness rating, deciding there and then that he'll stick it out for as long as she can.

"Come on," she says putting her mug down. "Bandages. I'm going to be late."

He grumbles a little at that but pushes the sheet down to his waist so she can see his side. She's gotten better at not staring. Ordinarily she's not given to this kind of thing. At the same time it's not like she doesn't ever look. She does. She's human. But Frank makes it hard to keep up the facade that she's not. And he's making it hard now and she forces herself to look away from the chiselled lines of his ribs, the sharp crease at his hip and concentrate on the task at hand.

He makes things very unfair.

The dressing though, that's dirty and bloodied and as she removes it she sees he's somehow pulled two stitches in his sleep, the skin inflamed and puckered, turning a horrible purple.

"Busy night?" she asks and he snorts.

He doesn't flinch as she applies two temporary butterfly stitches to his skin. And again, it should hurt. It _should_. A hiss, a sigh, anything and she'd believe it, but there's nothing. Nothing but his eyes boring into the top of her head, nothing but the stifling, strangely airless microclimate of her apartment.

She realises she truly has no fucking clue what she's doing, what they're doing or where any of this is headed. Nor whether it's even possible to change it or stay the course. He's stoic and stubborn and has seemingly decided he can will away whatever it is he's feeling - something she suspects he does a lot of - but it's not sustainable. It can't be. They're going to have to deal with this. One way or another. Because right now it feels like they're walking on a volcano, feeling the magma rolling beneath the surface and hoping like hell that it's not going to shoot out the million and one cracks at their feet. It's reckless and dangerous and she's pretty sure they're both going to get burned. Turned to ash.

She smooths a clean dressing over the stitches, changes the one at his shoulder. That's looking better, along with the slashes on his chest, the bruises on his ribs and belly. Claire will be in later to check on him anyway. She always does before she goes to work because she's a saint and even though he's who and what he is, Claire has come through for him the same way she comes through for any of her patients, on or off the books.

They're all walking a tightrope, playing a game of chicken with the universe. No wonder Mother Nature is throwing a tantrum.

She reaches for edge of the sheet to tug it back over him and there's a moment, a split second where all she wants to do is lean her head against his chest, breathe him in. Maybe he'd put his hands in her hair, hold her close.

She's tired. She's so fucking tired.

She leaves the sheet, sits back, runs a hand through her hair.

"Thanks," he says softly and she nods.

"Ask Claire to check those stitches," she stands, suddenly needing to be away from him, away from this room, needing air and light and anything but Frank Castle and the way he's like a dark vortex that's somehow centred itself in her bedroom.

"What time are you home tonight?" he says it a little too casually and she flags it. She's not sure why. It's not a question he's asked before now, pretty much just accepting that she gets home when she gets home.

She narrows her eyes.

"You gonna miss me Frank?"

He looks away, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Come on," he says but she can hear a hint of mirth in his voice. "Don't give me a hard time. I got Nurse Temple for that."

And for a second it feels like everything is okay again. That he didn't leave her on the roof, that he doesn't keep trying to push her back into Matt's life and consequently his arms. That she didn't fuck up and ask him the one question she swore she wouldn't. That they're friends, maybe something more and they can face whatever it is between them and not have to let it go like he said they should.

He asked if she knew and she does. She told him she does. And she wants to tell him again. It doesn't matter if she doesn't know how.

But later. Later. It can wait.

"Probably about 7:00," she says. "Want me to bring anything?"

He shakes his head and there's something very gentle in the way he does it, that hard look in his eyes all but disappeared and replaced by something else. Something almost sad. Wistful.

So much for looking at her like she hung the moon. And the stars.

"Stay safe ma'am."

She nods and suddenly feels a little choked up, heart clenching just a little, her own tiny monster trying to cut off her air and halt the words in the back of her throat. She wants to make this right. She wants all these little moments again.

 _His hand on her bruise, his lips against her hair, thick fingers twisting through hers._

 _Don't you know?_

And she can't look at him for another second, so she grabs her purse, slings it over her shoulder and heads for the door, for the air that exists on the other side of it, the air he hasn't sucked out of the world. But just as she's about to press down on the handle he says her name and it's so soft and unexpected she's not convinced she heard him and that this is not her overtired mind playing tricks on her. But then he says it again and she freezes, bites down hard on her bottom lip.

Turning back to look at him is harder than she thought it would be.

"Thank you," he says softly and despite herself, she smiles.

"You're welcome," it comes out a half whisper and she's not sure why.

"I wouldn't be here without you," he says, stops, pauses. "I just wanted you to know that."

She nods again.

For some reason his words give her no comfort at all.

XXX

"You're looking a little fragile, you all right Page?"

Ellison. Leaning again. This time into the office kitchen where she's making coffee.

She gives him a wan smile. "I just haven't been sleeping all that well."

He cocks his head, purses his lips like he doesn't believe her.

"Not like you've been burning the midnight oil," he says. "Your pitches were shit this week."

She gives him a sour look. He's accepted every last pitch she made bar two. To be fair those _were_ pretty shit but the rest he lapped up like a kitten drinking cream.

He's contrary today though. Squirrelly. Has been all week since he floated the idea on Monday morning that the paper would be willing to give her a book deal, if she'd bring a thing or two to the party. The problem was the thing or two. He wants the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He wants an exclusive biography. And yeah he knows Karen knows more than she lets on. He _knows_. And no, he's not asking for a reveal. He's not an idiot, he's perfectly well aware she won't do that. But he does want details. Quotes, memories, anecdotes. He wants everything the Devil is willing to give right up to and definitely _not_ including the Frank Castle fiasco, because he's apparently not letting her near anything to do with the Punisher until she gets a little perspective, because she can't keep her head when that happens. And to be fair that's 100% true, even if it makes her glare at him and consider slipping salt into his coffee.

And she turned him down. Her contract doesn't include having to write books. And no, it didn't matter that the pay would be good. She's not exposing the Devil that way. No she won't even talk to him about it. Besides, what does he expect? Her to get an audience with Wilson Fisk? No way to get that kind of True Crime novel out there without word from the man himself. And no, she doesn't think Fisk is about to make himself available to her.

So Ellison's been bristly. Sarcastic. Abrasive. Apparently this is the stick part of his pitch. She's waiting for the carrot. Not that it'll change anything. In the meantime though, she's got this. Him in all his sour-faced glory picking on her a little like a bully in a playground.

And yet right now that's not what he's doing.

"Seriously Karen, you're not looking great," he holds up his hands. "And before you go reporting me to HR that's not a comment on your aesthetic. You just don't look well. Are you coming down with something?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm really just tired Mitchell," she takes a sip of her coffee. "I haven't slept well for the past few days."

He cocks his head. Genuine concern now. "Something bothering you?" He asks.

 _Sure yes, the big bad Punisher in her bed._

She shakes her head in what he knows must be a lie.

"Just can't get to sleep."

Ellison gives her the once over and frowns.

"Karen, do you need to take a few days off?" he asks. "I'm not actually a slave driver even if I play one on TV but I'm genuinely worried about you. And if you are getting sick I'd prefer not to get it."

She grins, fake coughs and sees how he recoils out of the room. He's so damn predictable. And really he deserves it after that dig at her pitches.

"Germaphobe," she says and he glares at her.

"You probably caught something at Josie's. They probably have offer Swine Flu as a side dish there."

She snorts. Say what you like about Ellison, his outrage is always amusing.

"Really, I'm fine," she tells him. "Honestly, I swear I am just tired."

He doesn't believe her. That much is obvious and he glances down at her clothes.

"I guess the fact that you are dressed like you're going to a funeral doesn't help," snark again. The old Ellison. The one that's pissed with her because she's not writing a book about Matt and all his shenanigans.

"Now that _is_ something for HR," she teases. "Definite comment on my _aesthetic_."

He waves her off as he turns around. "Just get some rest Page, you've got a book to write."

She rolls her eyes. "Not writing your book Ellison."

"Yeah you are," he says as he slips back into his office and shuts the door.

He's right though. She _does_ need some rest. And she _is_ dressed like she's going to a funeral. Apparently, like with most things, she wasn't really thinking all that straight when she got dressed this morning, not paying attention to anything other than the man in her bed. She glances down at her tight black capri pants, the ones she swore she'd never wear to work but had to on account of her skinned knees, her black blouse loose over an equally black singlet. It's not that she looks bad. She doesn't. The outfit is more than smart enough, especially for an industry that seems to pride itself on being jaded and hard, unfazed by flash and fuss (and obviously that's all lies, but they need to keep the facade up for some reason) it's just that it's not her. But she guesses this has been a week of getting older and trying new things, so maybe a new look isn't out of order.

If she can keep Frank Castle in her bed then surely an alternative wardrobe can't be that scandalous.

Karen Page. Living on the edge.

She takes her coffee back to her desk. Outside the sky is dark and heavy. Joe, the weather guy, who she thinks is working up the courage to ask her on a date - and wouldn't that be a thing - says today is the day. The sky is going to open, the flood is coming, the rain is going to fall and wash the city clean. Well, maybe he didn't say all of that but he was insistent that the mugginess is about to end and the storm is going to break.

She still thinks all weathermen are liars so she'll believe it when she sees it. She hasn't seen it yet.

Regardless, she's antsy to get home. Not to avoid this as of yet imagined storm, although if by some sheer stroke of luck - because she refuses to believe it could be anything else - Joe is right, she would very much like to avoid what she likes to call Hell's Kitchen's Panic Traffic, which seems to occur without fail at the first sign of rain. But rather because that bad feeling she's had in her gut since this morning is still there. It's nothing she can define really and it could well just be lack of sleep and stress and well, the man who is causing both of those things, but something just feels wrong. Off.

Really, it wasn't like there was much out of the ordinary to make her feel this way. It's not like her and Frank have exactly been in sync these last few days. Not like she doesn't feel that distance gaping between them and she knows he feels it too. Despite his apparent desire to keep things that way. Despite the fact that he knows this situation is untenable and can't deny that he dragged himself across town with the sole purpose of seeing her one last time before he died. Despite the fact that he said "Don't you know" and she said "I know" and that means something. Despite all this, there's still that wrongness in the air that feels like it's punching her in the gut and screaming in her face that she's missing something and if she'd only open her eyes she'd know.

She gets these feelings. She gets them more often now since she's been at the paper. Ellison says the best reporters start to develop a sixth-sense for stories after they've been doing the job for a few years. That could be bullshit. It very likely is, like many things about this journalism gig. And yet… and yet it's hard to deny that she does indeed have a nose for this kind of thing, and in turn a nose for danger.

But this doesn't feel like that. Not completely anyway. This feels more like there's something she's forgetting, something important. And that's very possible. After all, she's probably had less than 12 hours sleep in the past five days. She's not winning in the Body and Soul stakes. Not at all.

Outside thunder rolls, loud and close and Joe looks up from his desk in the direction of her office. He gives her a thumbs up and she shakes her head, smiles and looks back at her screen. Could be that he's right. Maybe Hell's Kitchen is finally going to see that storm tonight.

Then again, maybe not.

She yawns, rubs at her eyes. Longs for her bed. She doesn't want Frank to leave. Not only because of all the shit that's gone on between them, not only because he makes her feel safe and it's hard not being around the people you care about but also because he's not ready. He's still weak and his wounds are not healed. And while she doesn't want him out there fighting and punishing and killing period, she especially doesn't want it when he's likely to get himself killed. On the other hand it would mean she gets her bed back and right now she thinks she might be willing to risk him for that. That's how dire the sleeping situation has become. She just might hold him to that promise tonight, she just might not fight him when he insists she take the bed.

A bell rings from the production department signalling that the paper has gone to press and she hears the standard half sarcastic and half relieved cheers from the floor. She glances at the clock. 3:47. They had a grand total of 13 minutes to spare today. Ellison will be proud.

She decides to leave. Nothing more is going to happen in the next two hours that the night shift wouldn't have to cover anyway. She has nothing urgent left to do and can finish off everything else at home.

She drains her coffee, for all the good that it's done in keeping her awake and emails Ellison to let him know she's taking him up on his offer and getting the hell out of dodge to go home and recuperate.

He replies almost immediately with a surprisingly non-acerbic message to take care of herself and get well. That the paper survived long before she came along and will continue to do so if she's ill or something else, like maybe a book-writing sabbatical or something.

She ignores him. Closes her laptop and slips it into her purse. She's starting to understand how Ellison got to where he is today. He's stubborn in a way that she can't even credit Frank with. He just doesn't let go and yeah, it feels a lot like brow beating sometimes and occasionally she's had to tell him to back the fuck off in as many words but she guesses tenacity is probably one of most important requirements for his job. And he has it spades.

Still, she's not writing his damn book. She's _not_.

Matt was and still is a hard limit and she's really not prepared to open that can of worms again. And definitely not now when everything is so messy and up in the air.

No, she's going home. She's going to shower and pour herself a nice glass of wine, order some pizza, watch bad TV and Frank Castle and his stoic nobility be damned. She's really too tired to give a fuck about any of it anymore. And who knows, maybe the wine and the exhaustion will finally become that perfect combination that lets her fall into oblivion.

She can always hope. Hope is, after all, apparently, a good thing.

She leaves. She drives home.

Her plans crumble.

XXX

She sits alone in the dodgy all-night diner on 10th. The same one that Foggy and Matt went to when Frank whisked her away to the mountains and told her he loved her and changed her dreams of an ordinary life into something else entirely. Something intimately more complicated and wonderful.

No she doesn't miss the irony of the situation. Not even a little bit.

Frank's disappeared. Gone. She doesn't know where or for how long. Claire checked on him just before her shift started at 3:30 and he was there then, apparently edgy and moody, more difficult than he usually is with her, the humour part of his harsh humour completely gone and replaced by something far more abrasive that even she found it surprising. He didn't say anything though, didn't give any clues as to the reason for this new-found rage and she left it. She said she has better things to worry about than big babies who really should know better.

Although now it's almost 7pm and Claire is worried. That much is obvious by her texts. He's still weak and he's bullheaded enough to ignore pulled stitches and weeping wounds. She makes Karen promise to call when she finds him. She also says "when" like it's a certainty and Karen wishes she had the same confidence.

Because he's Frank and she can't find him. Because, like Matt's own realisation in this very place, she's coming to understand the helplessness you feel when The Punisher doesn't want to be found. Your chances come in at just less than zero.

Doesn't mean she hasn't been trying.

She's checked the Vinegar Hill apartment, she's called Foggy to ask if Frank came by for Luna - which he hasn't - and she's even scouted out that godforsaken warehouse on 11th on the off chance she'll see his truck or some sign of life. She's not quite ready to go in yet, not only because of what happened the last time, but because she really doesn't think that's where he is. Doesn't think he would risk going back and getting another ass kicking so soon after the last time. Especially as it's pretty much guaranteed he wouldn't be coming back from it.

And for the last few hours she's edged her way through the Panic Traffic driving around aimlessly in the hope that she'll spot him in the early evening gloom. And she can't believe she was doing the same damn thing just five days ago. That this is the second time he's sent her on a wild goose chase in less than a week. She's considering making a blanket ban on looking for him. Thinks that when she finds him, she'll draw up a contract or something and he'll have to solemnly swear that he won't disappear again. She'll get Foggy to notarise it and everything.

Friends in high places, she has them. Take that universe.

And the air is still tight and thick and, save for a few rolls of thunder, there's nothing to indicate that Joe isn't as much a liar as the rest of his weathermen ilk. And now she's drinking the worst cup of coffee in the world and she's completely out of options.

Well no, there's one. There is. It's a cold cabin up in the Catskills. But the thing is if that's where he is then she's not really sure she wants to go looking for him. It's not the drive - she'd drive all over the world for him - it's more the incredible foolishness it would show, the pure bullheaded stubbornness of it all. The journey alone could kill him… and frankly anyone else who decides to use the roads he is on. And besides she doesn't think he's there. Call it that gut feeling, that sixth sense. If he wanted to get away from her (and honestly she's not convinced that's what this little excursion is about anyway), the cabin is the last place he would go. She's too intimately tied to it.

Still though, this doesn't feel like that. It doesn't feel like an attempt to distance himself from her. Sure, things haven't been great but she doesn't think he'd do a runner like this. He'd consider it rude. Ungrateful even. She might have fucked up but so has he and she doesn't think he's passive aggressive enough to consider this a kind of retribution. A punishment. He's just not like that. Even when he is.

And she still has that nagging feeling that there's something she should know. Something important that she's missing.

She closes her eyes, thinks back to the morning. Yes, he was frustrated but that's not unusual; yes, it was tense but neither is that. And none of that is going to change until they sort it out anyway. And when she really thinks about it the truth was that things had even started to feel a little better. Sure, it could be her tired, overactive imagination, some of that longing manifesting as reality in her head - she accepts all of this - but she still doesn't think so.

His strange preoccupation, that nagging feeling that there's something she should know, bothers her. And then there's the fact that he asked her when she was coming home and he has never done that. She guesses that's another reason to think this was planned, timed in some way. If he left just after he saw Claire and still thought he had a few hours before Karen got home, it seems more than likely he just planned to do whatever it is he was doing and then slip back unnoticed. No harm, no foul.

And then she decided to come home early.

She considers going home, waiting for him to come back like Matt and Foggy waited for her. Maybe she could even catch a few hours sleep in the bed and she wants to laugh out loud at that. Yes, she's dog tired but she knows she couldn't possibly sleep. Not now with him roaming the streets somewhere.

And God, where would he roam? Where the hell _could_ he even go? What bad guys could he hope to find - to punish - in the state he's in, if that was even the plan, which she doesn't think it was. He didn't even take the guns she brought back from the Vinegar Hill apartment when she went to fetch Luna. In fact, from what she can see he's currently armed with a bowie knife and his car keys and that's about it. It's also entirely possible that he genuinely just wanted to go outside and lost track of the time. Her place is small and she's no stranger to cabin fever. And with this murky, muggy weather over the last few days it isn't much of a leap to imagine that maybe he'd just want a change of scenery, the chance to feel the wind against his skin. It's possible. He's still a man underneath all that monster. He still needs, he still grieves, he still loves.

And it feels like something falls into place, some clue that she's missing, some lost puzzle pieces moving together to form outlines. Edges.

She puts her head in her hands, squeezes her eyes shut.

 _Think Karen Page. Think. You have lists and you have names for things and sure, you're as blind as a fucking bat most of the time and especially when it counts, but maybe now you can redeem yourself. What could be so important that Frank would risk his stitches and his life to go and do? What could make him leave a warm bed, a place where he is cared for and relatively safe, being looked after by someone he seems to genuinely like and head out into the terrible weather and the danger that is Hell's Kitchen. What could possibly be that important? What could he possibly love that much?_

Foggy's voice in her ear _"It's been what? Two years now?"_

It hits her like a gunshot. She opens her eyes, sits up straight. Karen fucking Page. None so fucking blind.

She reaches into her purse, pulls out her phone, searches for Maria Castle's obituary, something she did dozens of times when she was writing her first article for Ellison, something she should know off by heart, something that should be forever emblazoned into her brain, her memory.

She barely glances at the picture, Maria, on a beach in a floral sundress, looking over her shoulder as the wind lifts her hair. Frank told her about it once. Haltingly. His voice cracking messily until she told him to stop, that he didn't need to say anything else. That she knew. She understood. It was their honeymoon. They went to Hawaii, did nothing but lie on the beach during the day and listen to the sounds of the ocean at night. Yeah, he didn't say it in those words but he told her anyway, sitting there in his orange jumpsuit, cuffed to the table like a wild animal, while a guard loomed over them so that she couldn't even touch his hand to offer some comfort. He took the picture. Said it was the prettiest picture he ever took.

Foggy was right. He was hot mess. She's right too. He still is.

But there's no time for Maria's smiling face and her windblown hair. No time for her pretty pink dress or the hibiscus tucked behind her ear. She's seen it so many times before.

She scrolls to the date. Two years ago to the very fucking day. A mother and her two children gunned down in front of a carousel. Husband and father in critical condition, a bullet in his brain. Unlikely to survive.

 _Oh god._

To be sure, although she has no idea why she needs any additional confirmation, she grabs a copy of _The New York Bulletin_ off the table next to her. It's crumpled and stained with tomato sauce and coffee but she doesn't care. Turns to page two, to their "On This Day" section. There's no way Ellison would have left this out. No way. Which means he didn't tell her and the probability of her slipping salt into his coffee skyrockets.

It's there. In amongst various fluffy other sundries that also occurred on this day - the illicit publishing of Shakespeare's sonnets and the Hubble telescope sending its first pictures from space - there's a small picture of Frank and a tiny blurb which somehow still manages to be horribly sensationalist and ask if this was the "birth of a murderer". And for a second she forgets about Frank completely and her rage at Ellison and this specific brand of gutter journalism is so real she can taste it. It's not that Frank would care. He wouldn't. Honestly. But she does. She cares that regardless of everything that she's done, of her tireless work to show him as something more than just another monster, that Ellison is still willing to undercut her like this, print bullshit and click bait when a real person's life has been destroyed.

No, fair enough, he didn't write it. She's actually pretty sure it was an intern that did, but he approved it. He let it go. And yeah, dollar signs are all important now, what with print basically disappearing faster than you can say paper costs, but still.

He'd tell her she's in the wrong industry, that her moral backbone and media are always going to be at odds. And maybe he's right. But that doesn't matter because she expected more. She expected better from him.

She forces herself to focus. She can hash it out with Ellison tomorrow and, if she didn't need the money, she might even tell him to take his job and stick it. And yes, she knows that she's overreacting to this. Knows that her current state of mind it not the best and that she actually far too emotional to deal with this right now and things might look decidedly different in the morning, but this really fucking hurts. And only a small part of that is anger directed at herself for not knowing.

Either way, the upside (and there _is_ an upside to this) is that feels like she's one step closer to finding Frank, that the first part of this little mystery has been solved. It's figuring out now what this all means.

That, fortunately, is not hard.

In fact it's easy as falling down.

She tosses a few dollar bills onto the table, grabs her purse and heads to her car. It's time to face the Panic Traffic again. At least this time she knows where she is going.


	7. My head is giving me life or death

**And here we go again.**

 **So um, this chapter was both really easy and really hard to write. You'll see why. I kind of want to speak about it but I don't want to spoil it, so if there's anything I'm sure it'll come up in the comments. I really hope you enjoy it. After I realised this was turning into a series, this was kind of the chapter I conceived most of the rest of the story around, so I'm excited to share it with you. I'm also scared out of my mind. Please be kind and let me know what you think.**

 **I'm not really sure what else there is to say about this other than thanks for sticking with me.**

 **Title is from Foo Fighters _Best of you_. This chapter was also heavily inspired by Rob Thomas' _Paper Dolls_.**

* * *

Graveyards: the safest place in the world because everybody's dead.

She heard that in a movie once. A movie about one man's vengeance against the world for taking that which he loved most dearly. He wore a long black coat and he tore the city apart. He even came back from the dead to do it. There's no denying the comparisons any longer. No point.

The quote though, the quote is wrong. At least for now it is. Frank Castle is inside this cemetery. A dead man walking amongst the dead. And, therefore, by the very laws of nature he himself seems to have created, that means it's no longer safe. Not even for her.

She'll take her chances.

He came to her to die and he didn't. She's coming to save him and she will. She should write a fucking paper on it. A dissertation on the shit her and Frank pull on one another.

She gets out of her car. She's parked next to his truck and in another life another Karen Page would have been ecstatic to find it there - the visual confirmation that she was right and this was where he went and she solved the secret of his whereabouts like a good little Nancy Drew impersonator - but not now. She's a bit beyond that.

She likes the sound of it though, the shape of it. _Karen Page and the Mystery of the Missing Mass Murderer_. Try and say that three times fast. Maybe she should pitch it to Ellison. Get him off her back about his Devil expose.

A kind of wry laughter bubbles in her throat at the thought. The kind that tells her immediately that she's not in a good place, that her mind has started doing that thing where it plays tricks on her and forces her to ignore the gravity of the situation in front of her.

If only Ellison knew. He wants to take her away from The Punisher and get her to focus on the Devil and his plan so far, is only working backwards. Then again everything that involves Frank usually does.

 _Don't you know?_

She stands in the parking lot, looks to the dim streetlights, one is broken and flickering ominously and she remembers her old science teacher banging on about the difference between lights connected in series and parallel and why it's so important that streetlights use both. They all need to work together but if one goes down it's essential they all don't. It's apparently not an all-for-one-one-for-all kinda thing.

She shakes her head, glances at the cemetery wall, the stones grey and flat and dull, the steel gates with their sharp tips reaching high into the night sky. High enough that she imagines they might pierce the rolling clouds, hurry the storm along and wash away the filth and the badness of the city. She wonders what would happen to Frank if that were true. If he would be renewed or if he'd just disappear, dissolve into the dirt and the mud. Be at peace. If Frank Castle could ever truly be at peace. If he would even want that for himself.

She's not sure. Life doesn't work in hypotheticals. It doesn't work in metaphor either.

There's a small neat sign attached to the wall alongside a narrow gate. It warns that the grounds close at 4:30pm, that trespassers will be prosecuted, that this is private property and God be with us all. She likes that for some reason. She might not be religious, but she likes it. Fact is though she's pretty sure that God isn't here right now. He can't be. He's not allowed. He let a mother and two children die - He's no longer welcome.

Next to the sign, almost in a parody of itself, the gate hangs open, its lock in pieces on the ground. It looks like a confession. And in some ways it is.

He's here. The sinner, the saint, the devil, the angel of vengeance. This is, after all, hallowed ground.

Like his words earlier in the day, that gives her no comfort at all.

She looks around and all she sees is shadows. It's not just that it's night and the sky is full of storm clouds, that there's no moonlight to tinge anything silver or make the world glow. It's that the very air feels dark, as if it's been saturated with black ink. Violated somehow. And that seems fitting. The universe has pulled some pretty underhand and cruel shit of late, it seems only right it should bear some of the suffering too.

The gate squeals as she pushes it open, hinges rusted and old, and it seems at odds with the relatively well maintained grounds, the manicured lawns, the tidy flowerbeds of white and red rose bushes. She guesses the side gate doesn't get much traffic. That when you come to a place like this, there's a certain ritual about using the main entrance, something ceremonial that can't exist here now.

There's a little voice in her head telling her she can go home, that he will make it there eventually and all she has to do is wait but she knows she's not going to listen to it. Despite the wrongness in the air there's something telling her that this is where she's meant to be. That after the cabin and the roof, after he nearly died in her arms they were always going to end up here. At the start of it all. The beginning of the end.

Even so, it feels like a commitment to step inside. It shouldn't. It's just a gate but in her head it's more like a threshold, a portal to another place where somehow the world is even sadder.

She does it anyway. She's no stranger to sadness. To loss. To death. There's no turning back now. No turning back ever. And it's not safe even though everybody is dead. Including him.

She stands a moment, breathes in the night air. It's thick and stifling and it smells of lilies and earth, a hint of decay. And it's heavy. Worse than it's been up to now. Something has to break soon or they'll all suffocate. Every last one of them.

 _Bring out your dead Hell's Kitchen. Bring them out for the chance of redemption._ Even if redemption is a joke.

She walks. She doesn't know where she is going, doesn't know where their graves are and it's no surprise to find that she has no cellphone signal inside. It barely matters though, she knows she'll find him - _them_ \- eventually.

She passes rows and rows of headstones. Some simple and square, others elaborate, marble angels and detailed crucifixes, some strewn with flowers, others with fluffy toys. She catches names and phrases. Jennifer, Shelly, Gabriel, beloved mother, daughter, son. Friend. Wife. Father.

She should have come here sooner. Not tonight, but just sooner. When she was helping him and learning him, when she was finding that rage that fuelled him, understanding his life, his history and why he was so determined to make blood and death his legacy. She realises she knows little about Maria save for what he told her, almost nothing about Lisa and Frank Jr. And she should. They're pieces of him and he's pieces of them and she's wise enough to recognise that she needs to know all of them to know him, to understand what he was and what he's become.

Maybe she's been selfish but then he has too. Maybe they've both been ignoring this, pretending there's a way to move around instead of through it. And despite the hell that's been her afternoon she's grateful he's taken this step. It's time. It feels right, even in its wrongness.

 _Come what may._

She sees him before he sees her. He's standing in the grass near a tall oak tree. He's still, so very still that there is a moment she mistakes him for another statue, a guardian of the dead. He'd scoff at the idea, despite the fact that he'd believe it.

Shadow man in a shadow world.

There are three graves in front of him, two small crosses on either side of a marble angel, her face downcast and her wings spread wide, over all of them. No fourth. No place for him. She wonders if he wanted it that way, if he's truly okay with it, if he knew he'd never lie here, in this ground beside them. After all, Frank Castle is already dead. She said so herself. Maybe it wasn't as much of a lie as she thought it was.

She watches him, sees how he stands, shoulders hunched, head down, fingers flexing. This isn't about catharsis for him, this isn't about grief and saying goodbye. It never has been. This is about fuelling that rage, reminding himself of what they did and what the world took and what he's lost.

He takes a step back stumbling a little but he rights himself quickly. Someone else might mistake him for being drunk and the truth is turning to alcohol at a time like this and a time like before would hardly be a surprise. But he's Frank. Being drunk or substance dependent means less chance for fighting, vengeance, punishing.

He's beautiful. But the scale has tipped now. It's tipped so very far and she's not sure it's possible to bring it back, balance him out.

He reaches for his side, flinching as he touches it. She doesn't have to get any closer to know he's bleeding, that he's torn his stitches again, in the drive, the walk. They're broken just like he is and now he's trying to stop the pain and the blood and the fear that's running out of him.

She could do that for him. She could hold him together and make it so that it doesn't hurt. She has the power. Somehow. Somehow they both do.

She steps forward, her heels echoing on the paving and he freezes, head to the side, listening, hands suddenly balled into fists.

She's about to say his name, let him know it's her and he's safe but he beats her to it.

"You shouldn't be here Karen."

He's wrong. She should. She really should. There is no other place on Earth she should be right now.

His voice is level, measured. But it's also cold. And that's not something she's ever heard from him. She knows that it's part of him. Doesn't doubt that he can be a cold son of a bitch when he wants to be. It is, after all, the best way to serve vengeance. And yet … and yet he's always overflowed with barely contained heat. Rage. She's seen him fight and there's nothing cold about it. It's messy, bloody, angry. His bloodlust runs hot and fevered.

And then there's that other part of him too. The part that backed her into that cold concrete wall, that wedged his knee between her thighs and scraped his teeth down her throat. And that part runs hot too. His lust.

And it's also messy and bloody and angry.

She's long imagined Frank as a fire and in some ways she's found it comforting to do so. He's destructive, ruthless, horrifying. But in his wake he leaves something clean, something new and fertile, something better than before. He sucks the poison out of Hell's Kitchen and he swallows it.

And the thought makes her sad. The image of Frank Castle slowly destroying himself so no one else has to. So people like her can be safe. There's a kind of nobility to it, she guesses, a code and a set of values that come together to make it work, but she's not naive enough to believe he's a white knight. To imagine that what he does is a form of altruism, a kindness. She's been around him long enough to know that there's a part of him that's in love with this. A demon that feeds off what he does. Something deep and dark and demanding. That part of him called The Punisher.

But he's not that fire now. Because now his voice isn't his. There's a mildness she finds disconcerting, a contrived affability that lies about the madness lurking below it.

And he doesn't lie to her. And she has no idea how to feel about that.

"No Frank," she says and is surprised to hear that her voice sounds as steady as his. "I think this is exactly where I should be."

He turns to her and his face is impassive, unreadable. It's not a matter of knowing him well enough to discern what's going on underneath the surface, to know his tells. She's done that before, she's done it well. But she can't do it now. He's closed to her, everything about him willing her away.

And then he nods and it's not a nice nod. Not nice at all.

 _So be it._

She can smell lillies, sweet and heady. Jasmine. Rosemary.

She can smell him. Blood. Sweat. Rage.

He looks at her for the longest time. Doesn't speak. His eyes are almost black and all she wants to do is go to him and stand at his side. Help him find room for this pain and take what she can for him.

She loves him. The feeling comes fast and without warning. She's known for a while now that what she feels for him is more than attraction, more than her own lust, a passing phase. A crush. But it hits her hard as she stands there, as she watches him mourning his old life, loving his wife, his children. And she's surprised by how easy it is to put a name to it. How it doesn't feel dramatic or overwhelming, how it just is. And it's so simple and so difficult all at the same time.

And he loves her. And it doesn't have to hurt.

Except it does.

"You shoulda told me Frank," she says. "I could have brought you here. Driven you. You didn't have to come alone."

"You've done enough for me already." And the grit of his voice belies his words. He's angry. He's so very angry. "You don't need to worry about me anymore."

"Bit late for that now Frank."

So maybe it's the wrong thing to say. She's not sure there are any right things she could put out into the universe now.

"Ain't your place," he says and even though a part of her was expecting it, it hurts.

She guesses there has to be a balance for them too. If she can't hurt his bruises and his wounds, if he can't hurt hers then they can hurt in other ways. Deeper, harder, worse than they should.

He sighs, takes a few steps away from her and towards the angel, head bowed and breathing heavy.

"You don't need to do this alone," she says softly.

"Don't I?" his voice is strained. "Seems to me I managed to lose them all on my own."

"That's not true Frank."

He's quiet for a long time. And the moment stretches, thin and taut between them and in her head she swears she can hear screeching, fabric on the brink of tearing, nails down a chalkboard.

It's the loudest, most horrible silence she's ever experienced.

"I keep telling you to stay away from me," he says eventually and he sounds so tired, more tired than she feels and for a moment she thinks everything might be okay, that he'll surprise her and make this easy. And then he turns to her sharply and his face is all shadows, eyes black like a demon, a devil, and she knows he won't. "I keep fucking telling you and you never fucking do.

"How many times now Karen? How many? Three? Four? More? And you never fucking listen. What do I need to do? How many people do I need to kill in front of you to make you leave?"

And he's being so terribly unfair.

And even though she knows he's hurting, knows he wants to hurt, himself and everyone else, she can't let it slide.

"Yeah Frank you do. You also keep leaving and then you keep coming back," she's surprised again by the steel in her voice. Sure, it's strained. Sure she's angry but the words come out easily, dropping into the thick air like lead.

He sucks in a breath, sways a little on his feet. She's not sure if it's his stitches or if it's just her. Either way it's something that's causing him pain, inside and out.

Roll of thunder. Flash of lightening and they both look up. She swears she catches a glimpse of the clouds rolling like black waves in the sky.

"You don't want to be around me, then stay away," she says and her voice has that edge to it now, that wall between calm and tears starting to dissolve. "Maybe you should ask yourself why you don't Frank. What it is that keeps you coming back over and over again."

He glares at her. "Don't give me that. It's bullshit."

"Yeah it is bullshit," and her words are slow and hard. "Because it's not even a higher grade question when you get down to it."

He reels a little at that, another staggering step and he steadies himself on one of the angel's wings, looks back at her like she's something he doesn't recognise or understand. Something dangerous.

And isn't that the biggest fucking joke you ever heard? It gets one of the top spots on Karen Page's list of Things That Defy All Logic, which, coincidentally, is also the list that she puts this thing between her and Frank on.

"Karen…" his voice isn't loud or hard but there's a warning in it. And underneath there's something else. Something that sounds like begging. Pleading that she won't put it out into the world.

Jokes on him, she already has. And so has he. No point in hiding it now.

"You think I don't _know_ Frank?" she leans on the word long and hard. "You think I've forgotten? That I don't remember what you said that night?"

She takes a breath. "That I don't _know_ what's going on?"

"Yeah Karen?" he asks and now there's a terrible nastiness to his voice, mocking almost. Sneering. "What is it you think you _know_?"

Lightning flashes again and she sees his face clearly, all its hard lines, the stubborn set of his jaw, mouth cruel and pupils so huge that she can barely see the whites of his eyes, let alone his irises.

A thought comes to her and it's an awful, chilling thought. This is how he is when he kills. This is the last thing that all those people saw before they died. Not a father, husband, lover, not even a soldier but a monster.

And suddenly Matt calling himself The Devil is laughable. The Devil is here. He's standing in front of her with blood on his hands and nothing but rage in his heart.

But she won't be scared of him. She _won't_. She refuses. The universe won't take that from her too. He's still a man. Somewhere deep inside of himself he's still good and he's still kind. And somewhere there's that man that held her and cried with her, the man that danced with her on the roof just because she asked him to. The one that told her it wasn't safe but wanted to be with her anyway.

Even so, she takes a step back, hugs her arms around her belly, tears pricking in the corners of her eyes.

She shouldn't say it. But she does.

"You're in love with me."

Her words drop like bombs, hard and heavy and she swears she can hear the echo of them through the graves, sinister whispers reverberating across the stones, bouncing off the marble and coming together in an unholy little cyclone of hard truth and easy lies.

And then suddenly even the rumbling clouds are quiet and what's left of the air seems to have been sucked away while the world holds its breath and waits for him.

And that's when he starts launching nukes.

He pushes himself away from the statue and advances on her like she's prey - meat - and she's sure he can smell her blood and her fear, hear her heart beating so hard in her breast that it's a wonder her ribs haven't cracked wide open to let it out.

And he's big and messy and the pain has rendered him clumsy but she has no doubt he knows this dance, how naturally it all comes to him now, how he could break her and how she knows he won't. Maybe it's stupid and maybe it's naive but she's long stopped being intimidated by him. She honestly doesn't have it in her. Maybe she did at first, maybe those first few days spent sitting at his side at the hospital. Maybe. Even then all she could see was his brokenness.

It's not like she's unaware this situation is ridiculous. That it's completely untenable and it's nothing short of madness that she feels about him like she does. That it can't end well. That it won't. She puts things on lists and gives them stupid names and tries to pretend life isn't as scary as it is. She tries to beat down the enormity of the fact that she has a bond with one of the most violent assholes on the planet. That she's fallen in love with him and he's fallen back and there's not one fucking thing she can do to stop it. She calls him a man baby and focuses on his sweetness, his deference, the fact that he'd set the world on fire if she asked him to. It makes it easier. It makes it less raw and less real and locks it away behind a perspex wall where she can see it but it can't touch her. Except it can and it does.

He reaches out and his hand snaps around her wrist, hard and forceful, fingers pressing so tightly into her flesh that she feels her blood rushing along her veins, blooming under his hands. And part of her isn't sure if that's purely about his tight grip or if it's something else.

He yanks her closer and she stumbles a little, off balance and on edge, but he reaches out with his free hand to steady her in what must easily be the strangest thing he's done all night. And then there's a second that he freezes and she's not sure if he's going to kiss her or shove her. Truth is she doesn't think he knows either and she couldn't say which would be worse. But he snaps out of it almost instantly and then he's dragging her to the graves, until she's standing in front of the marble angel with her sad beautiful face and her delicately patterned wings. She wonders if before he started setting the world on fire if he commissioned this. If he made the choices, the lily in her hair, the crucifix at her breast. He must have. And that kills her a little inside. It shouldn't hurt this much. The universe didn't need to do this to him. Even if it needed another warrior- an attack dog it could let loose on the world - it didn't need to do it like this.

And then his voice is in her ear. Mean and low, breath hot on her skin.

"That's my wife Karen. That's her. Not you," his fingers tighten on her. "Read her fucking name."

"Frank-"

She wants to stop this. Despite the fact that she knows this had to happen, this _had_ to come and putting it off was only going to make it worse, she doesn't want to do this anymore. There's no use heaping more salt on already open wounds.

She also knows it's too late.

"Think you can shove my family in my face and then expect me to forget them? Think you can fix me? Patch me up until I'm all shiny and new? That's the plan right?" he lets go of her arm and laughs dryly and the sound is hard and cruel. "You fix me and I'm eternally grateful. Pass some fucking Karen Page righteousness test and then you can decide if I measure up."

"Frank you know it's not like that," the tears are coming, they're so close now.

"Isn't it?" he asks.

"No."

He snorts and again it's mean, derisive in a way he's never been with her.

"I think it is," he looks away. "I'm a little project for you. Fix me and fix yourself and then maybe you'll be able to sleep at night. Maybe you won't remember what it's like to pull that trigger, watch a man die in front of you, to know it was you who made it happen."

It hurts. It hurts because there's a grain of truth to it. But it hurts more because he would cheapen what they have like this. It might have started with her desperately searching for her own redemption, desperately trying to find a way to live in her own skin without seeing Wesley every time she closed her eyes. But it hasn't been that for a long time.

And he knows it.

"Here's a newsflash for you. You never forget it. You never do. So maybe you need to stop looking for redemption. You crossed over Karen. Ain't no going back from that, but you know that already don't you? You're a lot smarter than Red."

"Frank, stop it."

But he's not stopping. Not at all. And his voice is louder now, bouncing off the marble, echoing in the thick air.

"So what is it you want? You want me to hurt you? Punish you? Will that make you feel better? If I do it instead of you?" he stops, seems for a moment to catch hold of himself, seems to understand where he's leading the conversation.

She opens her mouth to answer him but he ignores her, carries on.

"But that's too easy isn't it? Bang bang you're dead and where the fuck's the fun in that? Where's the guilt and the suffering?" he narrows his eyes. "Want me to quote some scripture? Give you a speech about how killing is bad? How my way is best because I'm so fucking decent? Punish you for putting down that piece of shit of Fisk's? Tell you I get it but it's still _so_ wrong? Make you say a couple of Hail Marys? Want me to get a fucking little red suit?"

He doesn't fight fair. She's not remotely surprised. She's never underestimated his capacity for cruelty whether that's directed inwards or outwards. He's always been a nightmare.

A man at war with himself. A man at war with the world. And she doesn't know which one is scarier. Doesn't know which one will leave the most destruction in its wake.

And he's not done. And he's still merciless in the worst possible way.

"That what you want Karen? You want me to lie to you? Tell you everything will be okay? That holy fuck it's so fucking hard to be with someone who's not righteous like me but I'll do my best and lower my fucking standards. Fight the city the _right_ way, come home and fuck you the right way afterwards?"

Her palm stings and his head snaps to the side and for the tiniest moment she doesn't realise it's because she's slapped him, doesn't realise that the crack that echoes off the gravestones is not thunder or gunshots or any other fucking excuse.

It hurts. And that's okay. It was meant to, it was meant to hurt them both.

He's still for a few seconds, long enough for the moon to slip out from behind the clouds, throw the graveyard into a strangely stark light that makes the headstones shine like silver and turn the blood at the corner of his mouth black.

Then he reaches up, wipes at his lips, squints down at his fingers, and she finds an apology bubbling in the back of her throat. Desperate. Begging for release and she fights it back down, pushes it back into her gut, claps her hands over her mouth. Apologies don't fit into the world now. They'll break it and make it fold into itself. It's not time.

No way out but through and she's drawn first blood, made the first cut. His blood on his face instead of hers.

She doesn't wait for him to say anything, process what she did, turn it over in his head and figure out an appropriate response. She shoulders ahead, moving into his space, planting her feet in front of his so that there's nowhere he can look that isn't her.

"I'm the only one who believed you. The only one. You trusted me. You trusted me with everything and I came through for you over and over again" her voice is shaking and suddenly despite the terrible cloying heat she feels cold. "You don't get to forget that. You don't get to pretend it's not real because you're afraid."

He wipes his mouth again and she gets some kind of sick satisfaction in that, in knowing she's hurt him.

"I ain't afraid."

Another lie. There's fear in his every word.

"Yeah, you are," she says, voice low. "You're a coward Frank. The big bad Punisher, what a fucking joke. The big bad Punisher scared of a little girl who can barely fucking get through the day without crumbling. Fucking pathetic."

She rubs her face and isn't surprised when her hand comes away wet. She wonders how long she's been crying now. If it matters.

There'll be more tears before this is over. Because she's not done.

"You stand here and you think you can tell me about my life. Think you can use Matt to hurt me. Keep trying to push me at him and then getting upset when you think I might go. Mock me for it." She shakes her head, suddenly calm, looks away from him at the sky, the stones, the trees, swaying in the wind. "And it's all because you're so fucking frightened that you're not the one-and-done man you thought you were."

She's not particularly good at arguing, and that's okay with her. But she knows how to target weak spots, she thinks most people do. It's a skill honed from infancy.

"Fuck you Karen," he says slowly. "Fuck you. You don't know me."

It doesn't even hurt, not even a little bit.

"I do know you Frank. I'm probably the only one that does."

He rolls his eyes, pushes past her, takes a few staggering steps off the grass and onto the flagstones and there's a second she thinks he'll just keep on walking and she has no idea what she'll do if he does. Follow him or let him go? She thinks this has and always will be her choice. She thinks she might have to make it over and over again.

But he doesn't. He stops. Turns.

"Why are you here Karen?" he asks and his voice has regained some of that terrible coldness. "I was going to come back. Get into your little bed, listen to you not sleep on the couch. You're smart enough to know that. So why the fuck are you here?"

 _Because I was worried about you. Because this needed to happen. Because you need to feel this. Because I do too. Because this was the only way it ever could happen. Because I wanted to be there for you when it did. Because I'm an idiot and I love you._

She's silent, standing there watching him. So he answers for her.

And he's so wrong but he's also so right.

"You came here to judge me? Is that who you are Karen? Judge, jury, executioner. Watch me cry over them and then tell yourself that you get it. That you know it's not _fun_ for me but you understand it. You'd never do it, of course, because you're perfect but you can see how someone like me would. You think you're better than me."

It's the same argument as before. Now it's just wrapped in slightly different packaging and suddenly she is so tired. So weary again.

"No, I don't," she says. "That's why I'm here Frank. Because I don't."

"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying," Softly now, almost a whisper. "I thought we didn't do that."

That stops him and suddenly he looks hopelessly lost. Hopelessly sad and desperate for this to all end. But they can't go back. Not now. Chaste kisses in a cold cabin and dancing on the wet roof under the stars are so very far away they may as well be forgotten.

"Fuck you Karen," he says it again but there's no force behind it anymore. "You're not her. You heard what I said. You'll never be her."

It takes a few seconds to parse his words because there's a very long moment that she doesn't understand them and she has to turn them over and around in her mind to grasp his meaning.

"Is that really what you think I want Frank?" she doesn't even have the wherewithal to be angry, to dig deep enough for rage. It's so absurd she doesn't even think there _is_ an answer to it.

And he knows that. He can't _not_ know it.

He shrugs, turns away, shaking. The truth is that right now he's not even fighting. He's angry and he's in pain and he's throwing punches in the hope that something will connect. That something will _hurt_. He's not making sense but then again he never needed to.

"You can't fix this Karen," and he sounds so lost she feels fresh tears running down her cheeks. "You can't fix me."

He takes a ragged breath, balls his hands into fists and she watches as the rage bleeds out of him.

She tilts her head back to look at the sky, the clouds, the darkness, that demonic hell moon that slips in and out of existence. And then she turns to him. Shadow man and frightened boy, 50% lost puppy and 50% murderous rage. A monster, a nightmare, a saint, an angel.

"I know," she says. "Only you can."

He looks down, shakes his head, hand grasping at his side and she refuses to even think about his stitches and his wounds and the mess they must be.

"It's bigger than both of us."

She nods. It is. It's so much bigger.

"I couldn't protect them," he says. "I couldn't. I should have. But I couldn't."

She doesn't say it's all right. She doesn't say anything at all. There is nothing to say. She just watches him as he looks around at the night, at the sky, the graves, at her. Desperately searching for something to focus on, to hold onto and finding nothing. He's shaking a little, swaying again and there's a sheen of sweat on his brow, big dark patches staining the armpits and collar of his shirt.

And then so softly she wonders if he really said it at all. "How can I keep you safe?"

And that's the crux of it, the heart of it all. She realises it as he says it and even though she knew - she _knew_ \- it comes as a surprise, a jolt. In amongst all his rage, all his bluster there are truths, things not meant to hurt, missiles not meant to find her.

And suddenly the world turns bright, lightning flashing and throwing the entire graveyard into a kaleidoscope of vivid colours, so intense it almost hurts to look. Grass a brilliant green, stones shining pure silver, roses like drops of blood and tears on a backdrop of emeralds. And Frank. Frank in all his darkness and all his shadows. Frank saying over and over again _You're not her, you're not her_. Frank swaying and then thunder rumbling as his knees buckle and she runs to him. Grabs him around his middle as hard and as tight as she can and he doesn't flinch. He _doesn't_. Even though she must be hurting him, pressing his stitches into his skin.

And again he's gripping at her, hands coming up to grab at her shirt.

"You're not her," he says softly as he breaks. "You're not her."

And then he buries his head in her neck and he sobs.

And the sky opens and cries with him.

She sits half on her knees in the wet grass, mud on her clothes, her back against Maria's grave. The stone is cold and hard, but it's not unpleasant and even though they're drenched from the initial downpour the angel's wings keep the rain off them.

Frank's head is on her breast, his cheek pressing into her skin, stubble scraping hard enough that she knows there'll be abrasions tomorrow, brow firm against her collarbone. He's shaking and she's holding him, arm around his shoulder, fingers digging into his skin, other hand cupping his head to her. She's quiet but she's pressing kisses into his temple, stroking his hair, rocking ever so slightly.

And he's like a small child, both strangely spent and completely at odds with himself, moving against her in strange staccato shudders, twitching like he's too big for his own skin and all he wants to do is crawl out of it and never get back in. He's talking too, whispering things he means and others that he doesn't.

 _You're not her. You're not her. Fuck you. You don't know me. I love you. You're not her._

His one hand is hooked around her waist, resting on her hip, the other splayed across across her collarbones, fingers opening and closing around her black rose pendant, tugging at it, releasing it, going back and then starting all over again. Splay, grip, release. Splay, grip, release.

He's going to break the chain. She knows it. She doesn't care.

She can't remember much of how they got here and she's not sure how much time has passed. How much time they spent holding one another in the rain before they did. These things seem completely inconsequential.

There are other important things though.

She can breathe again. They both can. When the rain fell it brought the air back with it, opened a window to the world and let it rush back inside.

She's no longer melting in her own skin. That's important too. She's soaked and so is he and there's a cool breeze threading its way through the downpour and blowing across them in this little cavern, this shelter under Maria's wings.

And he's holding her tight. Not that he knows any other way to hold. But she's holding him tight as well and it feels like she's balancing him out somehow. Like maybe he doesn't feel the need to crush her because she's doing some crushing of her own. It's easier to hold on to something when you do it together.

She's so sorry he felt that alone. She never knew the full extent of it, although she should have guessed. But then there's a lot of things he's been feeling that she never knew.

 _(How can I keep you safe?_

 _You're not her._

 _Don't you know?)_

"I miss her," he says into her throat, hand still opening and closing on the pendant. "I miss her so much."

"I know," she presses her lips to his hairline, shifts a little so she can pull him closer.

"You don't know what it's like to miss someone that much," hint of rage again, blood from his mouth smeared across the rise of her breast.

 _God, how hard did she hit him?_

She doesn't say anything, lets him speak.

"Nothing belongs anymore, there's no place for me," he says and his voice is calm again. "And then I'm with you and somehow it feels okay."

She closes her eyes, leans forward and rests her forehead on his head, lets her hair cover them like a veil, a shroud.

"I don't want it to be okay." The words feel important, like they have a terrible gravity to them but he hasn't stopped clutching at her necklace, letting it go, forcing his hand on it again.

"Why?" she whispers close to his ear.

 _Tell me your secrets. Tell me all your secrets._

He swallows. Chokes back a sob.

"Because maybe if it's okay it means I don't miss her anymore."

She rocks him gently again, tightens her arms around him.

"It doesn't mean that Frank," she says. "I promise you it doesn't."

"How do you know?" he asks and he's like a child again.

"Because I know," she kisses his head. "and I don't lie to you."

He's quiet for a long time. He shakes and shudders and trembles against her. He tugs at her necklace. He sobs. And she wonders how many times he's done this. Truly, really done it. Let himself feel it, let it overwhelm him. Sure, she's seen him cry before and she knows second-hand from Matt that he fell apart the night he was arrested. But she has to wonder about this still. This sobbing that's part relief and part hysteria. The way his breathing gets fast and hot and he makes no sense. And then how he gets slow and lets what's left bleed out of him.

And all she can do is hold him. And that's okay. She has a role here and she's happy for this to be it.

"I want them back," he whispers and she nods, runs her fingers through his hair.

"I know you do."

There's nothing much more she can say. There aren't words to soothe this and there shouldn't be. You shouldn't be able to lose the people you love the most and get over it because someone somewhere said some pretty words. She's a writer, words can do a lot of things, but they can't do this. And they shouldn't. So she holds him. Lets him sob and cry. Lets him shake and tug at her necklace, get mud in her hair and her clothes.

They're both so filthy. Sweat. Mud. She looks at her breast. Blood.

She needs to check his stitches, she knows he's torn them. There's no way he hasn't. She hopes it's not too bad, that she won't need to call Claire other than to say he's back. Claire has done enough. Her and Frank need to handle their own shit now.

The rain shows no sign of letting up and it's coming down hard and fast. Like it's been storing every last drop it can for this very moment, holding onto it through the stifling heat until it can let everything go and wash the world clean.

He didn't disappear, she rain came down to wash the badness out of Hell's Kitchen and he's still here. Different and weak and not standing, but he's still here. Yes, it's a ridiculous thought and the world doesn't work in metaphor, but it seems important. It seems right.

She kisses his head again and he tugs on her necklace even harder, chain biting into the flesh at the back of her neck. The truth is he's probably unaware he's doing it. It's something small and easy to focus on in a world that feels too big and too empty. A world scarred with gunshots and missing three vital pieces of his puzzle.

Then again he's still here. He's not dead, despite his insistence that he is. There is life here, scarred and lost though it may be. It's here, it exists. For both of them.

She's not naive enough to think she can fix him, to believe it. She can't. She's found that in general people can't fix one another in the way he means and she guesses that's probably for the best. Like words, there shouldn't people who can magically take the pain from you. There would be no point. It would cheapen the gamut of human experience if it was possible to wave all the badness away with a magic wand. But she can be here. And that will have to be enough. And looking down at him, exhausted and shaking in her arms but clinging to her like a lifeline, she thinks it is.

She strokes his head gently, fingertips trailing across his dirty scalp.

She wants to tell him that she loves him, that she's not playing coy anymore if she ever was. She felt it fully and completely before he unleashed his rage on her and she still feels it now. She felt it in the cabin that night when he whispered secrets into her ear and she reciprocated with dangerous truths of her own.

But she holds it inside. Something like that could break him again and she thinks he's in enough pieces for now.

So she looks up at the marble angel instead, the beautiful, intricately carved face and it doesn't feel at all presumptuous to make a promise to her that she'll look after him as best she can. To thank her for keeping him safe for all the years she did and that she can rest now.

The chain snaps and the pendant falls into his hand. For a second he looks at it like he has no idea what happened or why, hand still opening and closing around it.

"It's okay," she says before he can speak. "It needed a new chain anyway."

He nods, closes his hand and leans back against her breast, quiet and still, save for his trembling.

When he speaks again he sounds more like himself, voice still cracked and rough, but she can hear him behind it.

"I don't want to be here anymore."

"Okay," she runs a hand over his cheek. "We can go."

And they should. She has no idea how long they've been here, if there's a groundsman or some other kind of security who just by pure luck hasn't come across them yet. And wouldn't that be something to explain?

 _Karen Page, Intrepid Reporter, Lover of Vigilantes and Holder Back of Tears Under Extreme Duress_ , entwined with the Punisher, her lips on his skin, his blood on her breast. _Nothing to see here sir, we were just leaving_.

She shifts and he moves off her, disentangles himself clumsily and slowly, presses his hand to the earth below Maria's headstone. She stands and the rain hits her with a force she didn't expect, saturating her clothes and hair again, running down her legs and squelching into her shoes. Her clothes always end up ruined around him. She starting to wonder if the universe is trying to tell her something.

She holds out her hand to him.

"Come home with me," she says.

 _Home_.

The word lingers and she lets it. Let's him feel its shape and its meaning. It's gravity.

He does.

He takes her hand.

It something else that feels strangely like a commitment although when she thinks about it, maybe it's not so strange after all. He sways a little in the rain, stumbles and she puts her arm around his waist again, lets him lean on her.

He's not falling. Neither of them are. Not this time.

He takes a few long moments to stare at the graves and then he tilts his head to sky, lets the rain wash over his face, over the bruises and the wounds, the blood from his mouth dissolving under its force.

And then she leads him away and they leave death behind.

She drives. They leave her car. They don't speak. He's like a shadow in the seat next to her, hunched up and trembling and she puts the heater on even though she knows he's not cold.

His music selection is bad. It always is. Toto and REO Speedwagon. Cutting Crew, and she figures songs about dying in your arms tonight are a little too on the nose, so she turns the radio off. And regardless, it's better that way. The quiet, him and her and the bright city lights now dimmed by the downpour.

She's tired and driving in the rain has never been her favourite thing, but the Panic Traffic is gone and the roads are emptier while everyone hides away inside to escape the downpour. She hopes Claire is safe, that she'll get home without much fuss, that Matt isn't out fighting the good fight somewhere. That Foggy and Marci are snuggled up watching bad TV, Luna asleep between them.

She likes the rain itself though. And not just because it had to happen, not just because she was secretly hoping Joe wasn't a liar and that it would. But because she's always found something comforting in it. It keeps the world at bay somehow. She knows it's silly.

She reaches over and touches him every now and then, a hand on his arm, his knee. He's quiet for the most part, resigned in a way that doesn't feel terrible or resentful at all. He watches the road, eyes flickering between the cars and the streetlights, the poor souls still outside huddling under umbrellas or running holding newspapers over their heads as if that will guarantee them some kind of dryness or comfort in all this.

Not that they're doing much better inside though. She can feel the water from her clothes pooling onto the seat, her shoes oozing every time she brakes or accelerates.

It'll be okay.

When they get home, she sends Claire a text and the only concession she makes to Irene's death stare is asking Frank to keep his head down. She holds his hand in the lift and when she closes her front door behind them she realises she has no idea what to do next. He's standing there, under his dry bloodied handprint, dripping all over the floor and looking at her like somehow she has all the answers.

And she doesn't. She really doesn't.

And then he shivers and she realises she does. She has one.

If her life was a movie this is the part where she would kiss him. But it's not and she won't. Instead, she takes his hand again, leads him to the bathroom, doesn't bother to turn on the light and works by the glow from the bedroom. She leans into the shower and turns on the spray, holds her hand out until the water warms against her skin.

He's watching her, features strangely unconcerned as she reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, lets it fall with a wet thwack to the tiles. His bandages are a mess, stained brown with blood and black with mud, soaking and filthy against his skin, but she'll worry about that all later. She has stitches, she has dressings, she'll make it work.

He flinches a bit when she reaches for his belt, pushes it out of the buckle, drops that too but he bats her hands away when she reaches for his zip and undoes it himself, pushes his jeans off his hips and onto the floor, toes off his boots. She's about to ask him for her necklace but then he's standing there, naked save for his black boxer briefs, all hard muscle and sharp edges, and looking at her expectantly and she forgets all about it.

Somewhere she thinks she should be downplaying this. She should be putting her observations about mostly naked Frank Castle onto lists and coming up with quirky names and phrases to make this seem less important than it is. But she can't manage that, the best she can do is tell herself that this isn't how she imagined undressing Frank Castle for the first time, but even that loses its impact because in some ways this is better.

She kicks off her shoes, shimmies out of her wet pants, tosses them into the muddied pile of his clothes.

She hears him say her name as she pulls off her shirt and for the first time he sounds slightly confused, not concerned, not angry, just cautious, questioning. But she ignores him. They've done literally everything backwards as this thing raged between them, turned them inside out and upside down and hurt them and healed them and hurt them again. And it only seems right that this is different too. That they share a shower before they share a kiss, that they share their hearts before they share themselves.

She reaches under her singlet and unhooks her bra, slides it down her arms, suddenly thankful for all the discreet undressing and redressing tricks she ended up learning in girl's phys ed classes, and tosses that into the pile too. She thinks that's enough. They're so much more than friends and so much more than lovers but there has to be a line somewhere, even if it is one they keep crossing and backtracking on. It has to exist. They have to keep something for when - _if, if, if,_ she screams at herself in her head - the time comes.

He's biting his lips hard now, grinding his teeth but his eyes are laser focused on her and he's not even close to looking away. And yes, it's lewd. It's really fucking lewd the way his eyes are eating her up, roaming over her thighs, the curve of her hips, her breasts and finally her face. It's both exactly like she imagined it and nothing like it at all. There's no room to say that there's any kind of purity in it because there really isn't. Because if she opened a window in his mind now, she knows he's imagining her naked and his hands and mouth on her. She knows this because she's pretty sure it's just a mirror of her own and she doesn't have the energy to tell herself it's inappropriate or wrong. It just is. She wants him, she has for a very long time. He wants her too. It is what it is. They both know it.

This is what it's like when he looks at her, this is what she would have seen if he'd turned around that night.

And then just as suddenly as it was there, it's gone and he's the lost boy again, stumbling slightly and she's reaching out for him, wrapping her arms tight around him and slowly, maneuvering them both into the shower, holding him to her, while the water sluices the grime and grit and rage off their skin.

And for a while they both just stand, eyes closed, her hands on his shoulders, his fluttering at her hips before he finds his courage and settles his palms against the lace of her panties.

She's not sure how long they're there, silent and holding each other tightly. When she looks down the water is running clear in the dim light. No dirt, no blood, no fear and shattered dreams circling the drain. It doesn't matter. Time has lost its meaning again. That doesn't matter either.

Somehow she ends up backed against the tiles with her head resting in the crook of his neck, his arms around her, solid and real and she wishes that she hadn't been such a damn baby about it all and had taken her vest off too.

Not like Frank Castle has never seen a pair of tits before.

But she didn't and she's not going to now because he's here and he's holding her and there's no urgency, there's no weirdness or even awkwardness. He still trembles, he still shakes and every now and then his sobbing still overwhelms him and she just holds on even tighter.

She doesn't care how long this takes.

They have heat, they have one another. That's all that counts.

And she loves him. Oh god, she loves him so much. She just wants to pull all his pain out through his skin, drag it out and crush it with her hands, break it for breaking him. His life didn't need to be this way and she knows without a doubt, that if she was offered a choice between losing him and giving him back what he lost she wouldn't hesitate. She loves him enough to let him go. But again, she's thankful that life doesn't work in hypotheticals.

She gathers him closer, adjusts so that he can move into the last remaining space between them, so that every part of her is pressed to every part of him, her arms tight around him, hands hard against his slippery skin, his scars. And she never ever wants to let go. She wonders if this is how he feels when he holds her, if this is the reason he's always held on so tight..

She's vaguely aware that he's hard, vaguely aware of the steady pulse of him against her hip and thigh, the way he been trying to shift so she wouldn't feel it and has now given it up for a lost cause.

They both ignore it. It's entirely inconsequential.

Eventually, soap and shampoo get introduced into the equation. She's not sure if it was him or her, but she's running a sponge along his shoulders, down his arms, between his fingers. Dabbing gently at his neck and jaw and he tilts his head back so she can wipe at the crusted blood at the corner of his lips and the dried mud on his cheeks. And it's like before but it's also not. He's letting her do this because he wants her to, because he trusts her and he feels safe. She does his back, his belly and then he takes the sponge away from her and dabs at the streak of his blood just above her breast.

He thanks her. He calls her ma'am. And it's not complicated.

And then his fingers are combing through her hair, working shampoo that smells like strawberries and vanilla into her scalp. He's clumsy and it pulls when his hands get caught in the snags but she doesn't care. She didn't expect this but that's okay, he's methodical and thorough and she leans her forehead against the dent of his breastbone, settles her hands against his hips, closes her eyes and just lets him. He wants this. He wants to do it for her and she's so tired that she stops thinking and analysing and wondering what it all means. It is what it is. She thinks that will be a good motto from now on. That and "one day at a time".

He won't wash her like she's done him, somehow she knows this and she realises that it crosses a line for him, although even he must see how incredibly blurred and broken that line has become. She's not shy around him, in fact sometimes her own brazenness (and this shower is a case in point) disconcerts her a little. But he's still shy around her, a little wary. And while she accepts that some of that is to do with the things he told her tonight - that fear that loving her means something it shouldn't - that's not all of it. Because at some point this thing between them _is_ just about them.

He finishes with her hair, he's forgotten conditioner but she's not about to make a thing out of that.

And while she'd like to stay there forever and just lean into him and hold him and never think about another thing for as long as she lives, she whispers that he should go and dry off and she'll sort out those wet filthy bandages and check his stitches in a few minutes.

He nods weakly, presses his lips to her wet hair and briefly - so briefly - rests his hand against her throat, fingers flexing before he moves past her out of the shower. And despite the fact that the water is still hot, it feels like he's taken all the warmth with him. She watches him for a few seconds, the way he fumbles for a towel, his massive shoulders and corded arms, how there's nothing soft about him. Nothing but everything. And something about that makes her want to cry.

He wipes his hand across the glass of the shower door before he leaves, looks in at her. Nods like he's confirmed something. And then he's gone and she peels her vest and panties off, covers her eyes and chokes back a sob.

It's not about anything in particular and she doesn't feel guilty not having a solid reason for it. Tonight has been a tough night. In fact this past year has been a tough year starting from the moment that Frank Castle chased her through a hospital with a shotgun and finally culminating in him falling apart in her arms tonight while Maria gave them the blessing of her shelter and Karen made another promise.

It sounds complicated. It's really not.

She finishes washing, rinses herself off and steps out onto the bathroom mat. It feels like a repeat of Friday night except Claire isn't here and there's nothing to hide behind anymore, for either of them. And that's okay. They need to stop hiding anyway.

She dries herself off, pulls on a pair of blue checked sleep shorts and a plain white vest. She kicks their wet clothes into a corner to sort out tomorrow and runs a comb through her hair.

Pretty matters.

It matters to her.

When she finishes she goes to the bed where he's sitting in a pair of sweatpants, the same pair she wore that night at the cabin that bagged at her knees and gaped around her waist. She doesn't say anything and neither does he and she wonders if maybe they've said everything they need to tonight. If their communication has been rendered moot by an endless back and forth of "Don't you know" and "I know".

She pushes him down onto the bed and he goes without protest, shifts underneath her and wraps his hand around her wrist, presses his thumb into that bruise he left there.

They've come such a long way since this morning, since the dark clouds blotted out the light in the dim room and she fixed his bandages with butterfly stitches. Since he told her thank you and his words gave her no comfort at all. So much has changed. So much is still the same. Because she's sitting here at his bedside again, peeling dirty, wet bandages from his skin, staring at the raw, red wounds, the broken stitches, holding dry wipes to them and not missing the fact that he doesn't flinch at all.

She cleans him, dries him, pulls his pieces back together, covers his wounds in fresh dressings. She doesn't miss his goosebumps, his sharp intake of breath, the erection he's not trying to hide.

They ignore it again. It doesn't have to matter now.

And then she's done and she glances briefly to the window where she can see the rain beating down on the city, blurred streetlights and headlamps, dirt running down the side of the building and no doubt into the flooded sewers.

But they're inside, they're safe. For now, everything will be okay.

She leans forward, kisses his brow and looks towards the couch. It's late and she's tired and she hopes tonight is finally the night she can sleep. But when she stands he doesn't let go of her wrist and when she tries to tug her hand out of his, he holds on tight, fingers pressing into her skin and she knows what's coming before he's even said anything, knew that it was always going to come to this and wonders why it has taken so long.

"Stay," he says voice thick and broken. "Please."

Any other man… _any_ other man and it wouldn't sound like it does. But he's not any other man. He's Frank and that means something.

She regards him silently, bites her lip and suddenly he looks worried and releases her.

"You don't have to…" he starts.

"I know," she says.

And then it's easy. She switches off the light and he shifts over so she can slide into the warm patch his body left behind.

He offers to sleep on top of the blankets and she shakes her head. So much has happened and something like that just seems ridiculously childish. Artificial even. If she's going to sleep with him, she wants to feel he's there. She wants his skin and his warmth, his breath. But it's so sweet of him to ask.

She turns to face him, moves close so she can rest her head on his bicep. Even in the dark she can make out the set of his jaw, the blackness of his eyes and the way they're boring into her like he wants to see all the way inside her.

He reaches for her hand then, pulls her wrist to his mouth and kisses the bruise, lips wet and soft and he lingers, kisses it again.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

She touches the corner of his mouth, the small half-formed scab rough underneath the pad of her thumb.

"I'm sorry too."

And it's okay to do this now. It's okay to put apologies out into the universe. It can take them without folding in on itself and breaking. It's ready. It's time.

They went through. Not over, not under, not around, but through. She drew first blood but he smashed down the wall and sure, there are a lot of pieces of themselves they lost along the way. She's picked up what she can but some of them scattered too far and they're going to have to make do without them. But they made it.

And now she's here, lying so close to him that she can feel the heat coming off his body, that she can smell her soap on his skin and if she's really quiet and really still, she can hear his heartbeat. And it's going to be okay.

 _Don't you know?_

He reaches out, touches her waist, in that space where her shorts and her vest don't meet. His hand is warm, heavy and her skin prickles and she can't help the small sound she makes in the back of her throat, the way she arches even before she realises she's done it. He doesn't say anything. They don't acknowledge that either, nor the way his thumb chases the line of her hipbone over and over.

His voice is rough when he speaks again. "I don't want to let this go," he says. "I thought I could. But I can't."

"Hold on then," she turns her head, kisses his arm. "Both hands."

He swallows loudly, blinks hard. She gets a tiny nod and his fingers tighten momentarily on her hip.

And suddenly she can barely keep her eyes open and she has to stifle a yawn.

She's in bed with Frank Castle and all she wants to do is sleep.

And then he smiles, lifts his hand from her hip and touches her cheek.

"Go to sleep Ma'am," he says. "You ain't gonna miss anything."

"Gonna miss you," she teases.

He snorts, the first genuinely humorous sound she's heard from him all night. He looks down, to the side, then back at her. He runs his thumb along her cheekbone and suddenly sobers.

"Nah, I'm not going anywhere."

No lies. They don't lie.

She turns her head, presses her lips to his hand and rolls over to face the window, to watch the rain beat at it like it wants to break it, and it's the most natural feeling in the world when he moves in behind her, slides his arm over her hip and rests his palm against her belly, his fingertips just beneath the elastic of her waistband.

And he's so gentle as he tugs her back into him, as he kisses her shoulder, then her hair. He's trembling but she's pretty sure this has nothing to do with his rage or his pain.

"This all right?" he asks and she nods.

It's more than just all right.

She covers his hand with her own, fingers sliding between his.

He breathes in deeply, whispers something she doesn't catch and will forever wish she did and then it's only them and the night and the rain. And then there is only sleep.

And for a while the saints and the sinners, the angels and the devils of Hell's Kitchen forget all the ways they are different.

* * *

 **The movie Karen references at the beginning is _The Crow_. I've drawn parallels before.**


	8. Bear the tension of tears held at bay

**Apologies for the delay. A lot of life happened as did Kastle Halloween which resulted in my other fic _The Bullet You Never Saw Coming_. Hope you enjoy. **

* * *

They don't talk about it. Not the next morning at least. In the dim light; the early, crisp air, she asks him if he wants to and he shakes his head, pulls her a little closer to him until her back is again pressed to his belly, and rests his cheek against hers. Breathes her in.

The rain is still falling outside, a downpour the likes of which is virtually unprecedented in Hell's Kitchen. Inside the room is dark and shadowed, its colours leached from the world except where she can still see the reddish-brown tinge of his handprint on the wall; the swooping lines his fingers made when he was dying and she had to will him back to life. And maybe it _should_ feel ominous, maybe even a little frightening. After all, she has a dead man in her apartment, sleeping in her bed even, and his blood has marked her. Claimed her. But it doesn't and he's warm and solid behind her. A huge, dark, comforting presence that showed her all his rage and ugliness, all his cruelty and his sorrow, and still she feels safer than ever.

He's difficult. This isn't something she's only just discovered. He's been difficult since the day she met him. And no, it's not just what he's become - it's not only the part of him that punishes, that hurts, that wreaks his vengeance on a world turned rotten; it's just the man he always was. The husband, the father, the soldier, the friend, the lover. She thinks Maria probably saw it too. Felt it deep in her heart - the fierceness with which he loves, that unbreakable loyalty. It gives him a terrible darkness that has little to do with his crusade against the world and everything to do with the kind of man he is.

It makes him hard. It makes him exasperating. It makes him dangerous.

It makes him wonderful.

She has no difficulty in reconciling these things.

So rather than talk, rather than unpack, rather than open those wounds again too soon, they lie there in the half-light, listening to the sound of the rain, the early morning traffic, Pickle's loud purring where she's wedged into the small of Frank's back. In another life it would be uncomfortable and, even in this one, Karen can't deny that there is a mild awkwardness to it but not enough that she would want to move and give up the way his hand rests against the skin of her stomach, his warm breath against her neck. That would be asking too much, taking away something she's earned with sweat and tears and more blood than she cares to think about.

She deserves something good too.

"Karen?" he asks eventually, his voice low like he's afraid to speak, fingers twitching.

She tilts her head, waits for him to continue.

"Will you sta-," he clears his throat, starts again. "Will you stay with me today?"

Not "will you stay home?", not "are you going to work?" but "will you stay with me?".

 _Will you stay?_

It feels like something else. Something bigger. Something that clawed its way out of his chest one night when she was cold and frightened and he was the only thing in the world left to hold on to.

It feels like " _don't you know?_ ".

She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, lets his words settle into her skin, finds a place for them and, as she does, a sensation almost exactly like relief floods through her. He's asking for him. For the first time he's asking her to give him something, something real, not because it's pragmatic, but because she's the only person on Earth who can. Because he needs her. Because she knows this already but he's telling her and telling himself too.

It's a big thing, huge in fact, but it doesn't feel overwhelming. It feels right, like this is how it's supposed to be.

She slides her hand down his arm, slips her fingers through his, feels him press a kiss into her shoulder, whiskers scraping her neck as he keeps his mouth on her and waits. She's not really even sure for what. Except she is.

 _Don't you know?_

Part of her thinks she should be terrified. She isn't though. She's Karen Page. _Intrepid reporter, lover of vigilantes and holder back of tears under extreme duress._ She has a fucking list for everything, she shoots mobster scumbags who threaten her friends and the big bad Punisher sleeps in her bed. Apparently she doesn't scare easily. That's something she thinks she can make peace with, something she'll accept in time. Eventually.

Right now though ... right now she also knows she can't refuse him and she doesn't want to. That today she doesn't have it in her. Maybe another day. Maybe there will be times she'll say no to him just because something is mildly inconvenient to her. But when she turns over in his arms and looks at him, sees the fear in his eyes and under that the pleading - the _begging_ \- she knows that's a very big maybe.

She realises that she's going to have to trust him not to use this, not to ask her for things she can't give. In this moment she feels like she can.

She touches his cheek and his beard is growing out, rough stubble giving way to softer strands.

"Yes I'll stay," she says softly. She will.

"Your boss?" he asks and she shakes her head, puts a finger to his lips.

"I'll stay."

Ellison is probably not expecting her to come in anyway after yesterday and her "aesthetic" and even so, this is the first night she's had more than a few hours of sleep and she's still exhausted. Maybe she needs to ask for something for herself too. Maybe for once Karen Page can come first.

Frank touches her waist, hand lingering and then squeezing gently, thumb sweeping along the sharp edge of her hip. And when her skin prickles and a small shiver meanders down her spine, she has to shake her head at her own predictability. At his.

They ignore it again. But it's not as inconsequential as it was last night.

The big bad Punisher in her bed. Karen Page in there with him.

"Thank you, ma'am."

She smiles, runs a hand through his hair and it's thick and soft, dark curls slipping through her fingers.

"You're welcome. Besides, can't trust you here on your own. I'm gonna need to ground you. Take away your coffee privileges or something."

He smirks at that, seems about to offer some kind of retort and then he suddenly winces and, even in the dim light, she can see the scab at the corner of his mouth twist, the shade of a bruise next to it.

"You okay?" she asks.

It's a stupid question. He's nowhere near okay. He's not going to be okay for a long time. But then he smiles again, mouth quirking up on one side.

"Yeah, I'm good. You just have a fucking _mean_ right hook."

"I'm sorry," she says it again even though they've already been through it and neither of them want to dwell on it. She puts her thumb to his lips and the scab is rough and hard but he doesn't pull away. Because it doesn't hurt. She knows it doesn't.

"Ain't nothing to be sorry for. Just surprised you didn't hit me earlier."

She snorts and he does too but when she glances at him again he isn't smiling and his hand on her hip is tight. He looks like he wants to say something, something important, something meaningful and for a second she thinks he's about to give up and fall into that deep and dark chasm of Things That Happened At Frank Castle's Dead Family's Graves In The Rain.

She braces herself for it.

 _(You're not her.)_

 _(I managed to lose them all by myself.)_

 _(What is it you think you know?)_

 _(Come home and fuck you the right way after.)_

 _(I love you.)_

But he pulls himself back, swallows heavily and she winds an arm around his shoulders, lets him rest his head in the hollow of her neck, his breath hot and damp against her. Truthfully, she wonders if there's really anything left to say and part of her doesn't think there is. But another part hopes they won't throw this into that vastly growing pile of hard limits she seems to have. Because she wants him to know it's safe to talk about it. That they can be a safe place for one another.

She thinks it's been a long time since Frank Castle felt safe. She thinks it may have even been longer for her.

Maybe they can be that for each other. Maybe they already are.

 _Will you stay?_

He squeezes her hip again; harder, more deliberate this time. And for a second she indulges the fantasy of leaning into him, of putting her mouth on his and tasting him. Tasting _everything_ , the blood, the tears. The rage. It would be so easy. Press her lips to his, lose their clothes, pull him on top of her so that he's touching every part of her and let him take her and drive himself inside her. It would be just like what she imagined the night at the cabin could have been and also completely different. Frank Castle having her. _Fucking_ her. Using her. His hands on her, grabbing at her hair, her flesh. Whispering in her ear, his voice rough and harsh. Frank Castle touching her, holding her, breathing her breath, making love to her and telling her in choked, halting sentences that he loves her more than anything else in this world.

But it isn't the time. Truth is she's not really sure when that time will be. If ever. _If._

 _Stay with me._

She'll stay. She always stays.

She reaches across him to the bedside table for her phone and it feels so easy to do it. So familiar to feel the press of him under her, the way his hand doesn't move from her hip and, if anything, grips harder. Maybe once she would have felt this was a problem, that this fire burning between her and The Punisher was only going to make her already complicated and overwrought life even worse. And it's true; it has and will continue to burn them, to hurt them. But maybe it'll also cleanse them, get rid of some of the rot and the decay. Rebuild them.

They're big thoughts. Big thoughts for a small occasion. Big thoughts for the still somewhat inconsequential press of him against her thigh, for the way her top pulls low and how she doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker to her chest.

Big thoughts. Too big for now.

She grabs her phone, slides back to her side of the bed, props herself up on her pillow and he turns into her, arm flung across her waist as he silently watches her jab at the keypad.

She doesn't want to harp on the message. She still has every intention of giving Ellison a hard time for the "Birth of a Murderer" editorial and she's unwilling to concede too much ground with apologies and explanations in this text. So she opts for something curt and to the point. She says she has a headache, she won't be in, she's staying home and in bed. At least the last part is true. But then she looks over at Frank and realises the first part is true too.

Frank Castle. A headache. A big, angry, ridiculous, wonderful headache. And he sleeps in her bed and puts his hands on her. He tells her he loves her and lets himself fall apart in her arms.

She can let it happen. She can _stay_.

She presses send and puts her phone down next to her.

"Thanks," he says again.

"That's okay. I could use a day anyway."

"I didn't just mean that."

She looks down at him, runs her fingertips through his hair.

"That's okay too."

"Shoulda left me there," he says. "After all that shit I said to you."

He's quiet for a moment and she waits for him to continue. "I didn't mean it you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah you did."

She lets that settle, lets him test it in his head and understand the truth of it. Accept it. She can see it hurts, that on some level he's appalled at himself, disgusted even. That this upsets him in a way that murdering dozens of men can't.

He gives her a grave nod, but doesn't look away.

"But I told you," she says lightly. "I'm not gonna let you die for being a jerk. Can't have that on my conscience."

"You're a damn fool Karen Page." There's no malice in his voice, no force behind it. Just a statement of fact and she guesses it's true. She _is_ a fool. And that changes precisely nothing.

"I said I wasn't done," she whispers. "I'm not."

"You were once." Also not an accusation. Just truth. Because they don't lie.

They _don't_ lie.

"I'm not now."

He doesn't say anything to that but his arm tightens on her and she lets herself sink back down, close her eyes.

He's rough and hard and she hates and loves that she feels so secure. That she's handing her safety over to this wreck of a man who stays in her apartment and sleeps in her bed; that murders and hurts and takes his rage out on the city. And somehow she knows he'll never hurt her. That he doesn't lie and she can trust him.

"Is there anything you want to do today?" she asks

He shakes his head. She didn't expect anything else. The world outside is still frightening and they're both still reeling from yesterday and what it means. Reassessing and regrouping is probably what they both need right now.

So she lets it be, listens to the rain, the wind, feels the gentle warmth of his skin against hers. She knows it can't always be like this but maybe today it can. And maybe tomorrow too. And maybe a bunch of todays and tomorrows after that as well. She'll take what she can get.

She's earned it.

She drifts for a while, lets her mind take over and cycle through the series of events that led her here. Matt. Foggy. _Nelson and Murdock_. Fisk. And when she gets to the moment she pulled the trigger and saw the bag of flesh and bones that was once James Wesley twitch and bounce in front of her, it's not as horrifying as it once was. And then she sees Frank. Frank with his dark eyes and his rough voice. The gentle half-smile when he told her about his boy and the cookies he hid in the piano. That tiny glance before he threw his trial. The way he looked at her in that diner before he destroyed it and her and then the way he looked at her again when he took Schoonover. That doesn't seem as scary as it once was either. That darkness is part of her now too. It always was. And maybe it just needed another kind of darkness to call out to it. To rouse it.

There's no use denying it.

She shifts a little, presses her face into his neck, lips to his collarbones and he plants a sleepy kiss in her hair.

He's drifting too and something about that makes her feel very content. This isn't only the desperate need for the comfort of another body. This isn't selfish. It just is. It's what they do now somehow and she decides not to think too hard on it. Not to put it on a list.

Next to her, her phone buzzes and she ignores it. She knows it's Ellison and frankly, she doesn't want to think about him too much right now either.

She's also vaguely aware of Pickle climbing over Frank's side and onto her belly, kneading her flesh briefly before settling down and she doesn't miss how Frank subtly moves his arm to accommodate them all.

It's a small gesture, but it feels bigger. It feels like there's a gravity to it. An acceptance of what this means and the changes it heralds. Whatever that may be.

But he's warm and he doesn't smell of rage and she doesn't think anymore.

xxx

It's Claire who eventually inadvertently gets things moving again.

She stops around at about 10 to check on Frank's stitches and gives them both a hard time; Frank for his disappearing act which she describes as a "dick move", and Karen because Claire's as fucking astute as they get, and she realises almost instantly that no one's been sleeping on the couch.

"I already told you he shouldn't be doing _that_ ," she says pointedly, glancing at the rumpled sheets, the heap of wet clothes in the bathroom. And then she turns to Frank who's already looking sheepish. "Told _you_ too."

Okay, so Karen didn't expect that. She knows they talk, but she always assumed the conversation to revolve around more pragmatic things like his stitches and his overall mental health; when he plans to leave and go back to wherever it is he came from. She didn't for one second think it would be about her and him and whatever it is they may have between them. Or however they might or might not choose to act on that.

It makes Karen wonder just how well Claire and Frank know each other; how much of a hard time Claire really does give him and if his semi-sarcastic admission of it held more truth than she thought. And she wonders that it came to that - to an acknowledgement of what potentially could happen between a man and a woman with a past and a present. Maybe even a future.

But then again, maybe not.

And then Claire is looking between the two of them, arms folded across her chest, all but tapping her foot.

Karen again tells her that it isn't like that, it isn't what she thinks, and Claire echoes their earlier conversation and says it's something that looks just like that, looks so similar in fact that it's almost impossible to tell the difference even when you're looking closely. And she's looking very closely. Because she's Claire Temple and she might do shit she isn't supposed to, she might help people she should very likely hand over the the police, but she's not stupid. Or blind. Or wilfully blind.

And then she glares at Frank like he really is an errant child she has no idea how to control. She tells him to stop gallivanting, to stop making Karen's life hard, to stop with all the coffee and most of all to stop being a colossal cocksucker. And he doesn't say or do anything other than look at the floor because even the big bad Punisher can be chastened by the wrath of Claire Temple.

And then, her rage seemingly expended, she softens and asks if everything is really alright and if there's anything she can do to help either of them. Because she loves Karen like family and Frank, well Frank - nightmare that he is - has grown on her in ways she didn't foresee and she really just wants everyone to be safe and okay.

"And don't you think that means I'm going soft on you Frank. Don't you think that at all. I know what this is about. I've been around the block once or twice myself."

She's a saint and an angel and Karen Page is fucking blessed to have a friend like her because there aren't many people in the world who are that lucky. In fact the odds are stacked against you a million to one.

And she doesn't miss how Frank retreats to the bed, how his sheepishness changes to something else. Something deeper and darker. A melancholy that she's seen all too often.

When Claire leaves she tells Karen that despite his shenanigans, and whatever _other_ shenanigans might be going on that everyone seems to think they can cover up, Frank's healing well. That truthfully, she doesn't need to continue stopping by twice a day unless something happens that actually requires attention, but she will anyway because she knows Karen likes someone checking on him and frankly, Claire doesn't trust him to _not_ do anything absurd. And then she gives Karen a hug and says that he still looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars and this might be all kinds of insane but she thinks she gets it, that she kind of understands what this thing is between them and even she has to admit that he's prettier than she thought. Also she's less than a two-minute walk away if Karen ever wants to talk it through.

A angel. An absolute angel sent down from Heaven to do good works here on Earth and put the rest of the world to shame.

And then Karen closes the door behind her and again, they're alone and again, it doesn't feel nearly as weird as it should.

She stands there for a few seconds, eyes flickering to his bloodstain on the wall, the wet patches on the tiles where last night they left puddles of rainwater on the floor and then finally to Frank where he is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the storm. He's still half naked, still seemingly unconcerned about putting a shirt on; the lean muscle of his arms and back stretching tight as he reaches for his coffee mug.

He's quiet. Thoughtful. He's been this way since they woke up the second time and untangled their limbs in that half-embarrassed, half contented silence that seems to have become their way and, underneath that, their truth. But now there's something else too. A resignation, or maybe more like an acceptance because it doesn't feel loaded with doubt or sadness. It doesn't feel like defeat.

She thinks she'd probably give everything she owns for a peek inside his head, a look at his deepest thoughts, a window into the sometimes terrifying psyche of Frank Castle, of The Punisher.

And then she realises she doesn't have to give anything. Nothing at all. She just has to ask. Because they don't lie.

So she goes to him, wedges herself in next to him on the bed, her thigh flush with his, and touches his arm.

He doesn't say anything at first. He drinks his coffee in big gulps, grinds his teeth hard enough to almost drown out the sound of the rain. She knows him well enough to know something big is coming, something deep. Something that fits on the list of Things Frank Castle Says That Change Everything, a list that was filled to the fucking brim last night when he fell apart on her and she had to be strong for him, when against all odds she _was_ strong for him. Strong enough to let him be weak. To let him breathe.

"Frank?" she says softly, hand curling around his forearm, pressing into his skin.

He looks down and she's not sure if it's at her fingers, her bare thighs or just the floor - if it's a gaze at something, or at nothing.

It could go either way. Most things with Frank could.

"She's right you know," he says eventually, voice low and soft. "You can't fucking tell the difference between this and…"

He sighs, trails off. Another gulp of coffee and he looks away, scans the room like he's searching for something he knows isn't there, something to distract him.

Something that isn't her.

She gives him a moment to gather himself but not too long. He has a tendency towards silence and melancholy, towards leaving sentences unfinished and thoughts unsaid. And that amuses her because with everything else he sticks it out to the bitter end, no stone left unturned, no scenario unconsidered.

"And?" she urges.

"And something else." It's a lame finish but she understands and she doesn't push him.

The truth is though, he's right. It is "something else", a big box of unexplored possibilities and unchartered territory. A vast area of no-man's-land where the Punisher sleeps in her bed and, now, she apparently sleeps with him, held tight in arms that threaten to break her and save her all at the same time. A place where he says he loves her and even though she hasn't said it herself, it's pointless denying that she loves him back. Loves him so, so very much.

It should be very confusing and it is. It's also not.

She looks at him, his broad shoulders, strong arms, muscular chest. The way the gentle morning light from outside seems only to tease him and never quite touch him, rendering his skin smooth and pale even over his scars.

He's beautiful. And that scale isn't quite so tipped anymore. It was, but he's fought back and so did she and they somehow righted it again. Got rid of some of the bits that were weighing them down. Scattered them. Discarded them. And here they are. And she should be scared. She should be confused and wary. But she's not. Because she can't be. Because she _won't_. Not with him.

He doesn't look at her but he takes her hand off his arm brings it to his lips, scrapes his stubble against her skin and kisses her wrist, slow and hard, his mouth wet and hot on her. It sends a shiver down her spine - of course it does - and it's another shiver that's not nearly as inconsequential as all the shivers and arches and gooseflesh from the previous night.

And she doesn't miss the incongruity of it all. Of the way they are with each other, the way that Claire's words earlier and his now, are nothing but God's honest truth. You can't tell the difference because there is none. To say there is would be to lie. And she doesn't lie.

But she also doesn't care to define it. Not now at least. And she tells him as much as she lays her head against his shoulder, hears him sigh into her hair. She's not sure that it's what he wanted to hear, thinks maybe he was looking for some kind of safety or direction in her words, but she doesn't have that. She can't give him something that isn't true. Isn't real.

He takes another gulp of coffee. Outside the rain still beats hard against the window and the wind howls and she imagines she can feel the very building shaking against the onslaught. It's okay though. She's weathered worse.

She's still here. She will _stay_.

They're like that for a while. Not talking. Not doing much of anything. She can still smell the soap on him, that heady mix of citrus and rosemary from when she washed him last night, when they stood in that shower all caught up in one another and her own confidence surprised her.

Maybe it was too much - she wonders about that now - but she doesn't think so. You don't get Frank Castle to do anything he doesn't want to do. You can't.

"I just want you to know…" he starts slowly, cuts himself off almost immediately, and then takes another sip of coffee.

She waits. It'll come. It always does.

He's still refusing to look at her though. His eyes are locked on the windows and the storm, as if somehow the answer will present itself to him in the deluge, like a promise after the flood.

It doesn't. Hell's Kitchen doesn't have those kind of miracles.

But it has some. Some small ones.

He swallows and when he speaks his voice is thick and cracked.

"I want you to know that I ain't fucking around with this. This ain't some fucking rebound crap where I find a pretty girl to make me forget and then I move on when I start to feel better," he sighs again, frustrated by his seeming lack of articulation. "It's just... I take this seriously. I don't want you to think I don't."

She lifts her head and looks at him, sees how he's glaring into the dregs of his coffee, how his shoulders are hunched and that trigger finger of his is tapping fast and agitated against the porcelain of his mug.

For a moment she's not sure she really understands. She gets the obvious - sure she does - that's not the hard part. What she doesn't get is _why_ he's telling her this, why he feels the need to. What big thing he's circling and jabbing at before retreating when it gets too painful, and then regrouping, coming back for a second assault.

Frank is complicated. That much she knows. It's a given. But part of it is because there's a complexity to him she's still struggling to get a hold on. His mind is razor sharp and he makes connections he more often than not assumes everyone else has already made or that should just be general knowledge. And maybe it's the result of a bullet lodged in his brain or maybe it's the result of the trauma of losing everything he loved or maybe it's just like Foggy said and he's batshit. But the end result is the same: he takes work, he takes effort. More than anything he takes love.

So she's about to ask him to explain but he seems to have found some kind of rhythm now, some kind of flow, and he speaks first.

"What I said at the cabin that night… I meant it."

His words fall like a stone, heavy and forceful. Sincere. And she closes her eyes briefly so that she can test the weight of them, gather herself and see if she's strong enough to accept them and let them move through her.

It's easier than she thinks.

She bites her lip, leans back against him, presses her mouth to the curve of his shoulder.

"I know you did," she says softly. "I know. You told me."

He lets out a ragged breath and something that sounds like a sob catches in the back of his throat and when she looks at him he's squeezing his eyes shut, swallowing hard. There's more coming. She can feel the reality of it in the air. He might not be ready to talk about _last_ night, he might not be ready to put _that_ out into the cold light of day but he can talk about this. Maybe it's time.

Maybe.

 _Don't you know? Will you stay._

Yes, she does and yes, she will. Always.

He shifts and she thinks he'll reach for her but he doesn't. Instead he puts his mug down, half turns to her but stays focused firmly on the floor, refusing to meet her eyes. He's never had the power to make her look away but apparently she has that over him. And she thinks that half-scares half-amuses him. Disorients him. He's Frank Castle. He's The Punisher. Decorated war hero. A soldier. He's not easily intimidated, doesn't wither under the gaze of just anyone. There's only a select few with that dubious honour, an elite group and somehow she made the cut. Somehow.

 _(My old lady... she didn't just break my heart…)_

 _(She'd rip it out, she'd tear it apart, she'd step on that shit, feed it to a dog)_

She doesn't want to do that. She _doesn't_. But she thinks she _could_ , he's given her that, given her his words and his trust to let her do with it as she pleases.

Part of her realises it's a gift. Another part knows it's a curse.

 _(You're not her. You're not her)_

It means so much more than she thought it did.

He's quiet, still, but even so, she can feel the anguish coming off him in waves washing over both of them, making the room feel small and choked. And then suddenly he's grinding his teeth again and she can see his jaw working hard, eyes flickering to the walls, the windows, settling on the door. It's an escape, she knows enough about how his mind works to realise that is how it's registering to him. She also knows he won't take it. It's something else he'd consider rude. Uncalled for. Disrespectful even.

And she can also almost see that little monster again, the one that tries to break out of his chest and tell the world his secrets. He fights it. She can see that too, the way he searches for ways to satisfy its hunger, give it what it needs and simultaneously keep himself from falling over the edge.

Thing is though, if he fell she would catch him. If he fell he would be safe and maybe he needs to know that.

"What is it Frank?" she says. "You can tell me anything."

He glances at her, brow furrowed and eyes dark and unreadable. There's a second she thinks she's lost him, that it's too much and he'll stand up and walk away, make some excuse about needing to shower or wanting to sleep or something. But he doesn't. Apparently he's sticking to this as best he can and more than anything he just needs a guide to get through it, a way out of the maze in his head.

She's about to touch him, just put her hands to his skin and see where that leads, see if that helps him find his bearings, but suddenly he's speaking again.

"Back when I was in Iraq… actually back when I was anywhere..." he trails off, bites his lip hard and almost immediately starts up again. "Those guys, the soldiers… they can always find a lady."

It's not what she expected him to say. He doesn't really talk about his time in the Middle East, not in all the months she's known him. It seems irrelevant to him on some level, almost like the way a random Tuesday afternoon at _The Bulletin_ or a Thursday morning at _Nelson and Murdock_ seems irrelevant to her. She thinks it might have been different for him if not for the fact that his real trauma didn't happen there in the heat and the sand, in the oil fires and sound of exploding grenades, but rather here, in his home - in the place he was meant to feel safe. And she thinks what happened at that carousal swallowed anything from before, washed it away and left him only with three graves and a bullet in his head.

So she waits for him to continue, to tie this back to where they are now and who he is and why he's taken so much time out from his personal war on the world to make room for her. For Karen Page. The girl who keeps lists and calls him names and can't really hold back tears under extreme duress even though she tells herself she can.

"It's war. It happens. Not nearly as much as it did in Vietnam. Different war, different soldiers, different time. But it still happens. Sometimes it's nice. You got some young, asshole thinking he's fucking Rambo or something, still wet behind the ears. And he gets there and the first thing he sees is his buddy's leg being blown off and he breaks because he fucking knows it could have been him and all he wants to do is get the fuck out of dodge but he's got another year of this hell. And before you know it he's crying for his mother and you got to talk him down and force him to pick up his weapon and keep going. And you think he'll never make it, that he ain't got it in him because he doesn't. And you're pretty sure he's leaving soon in a wooden box. He's even talking like he is. Like he's made peace with it. Goes on like that for a while. The freakouts, the fear. And then one day he's different. He's calmer. Focused. Finds someone to make him forget, give him a reason to get out of bed in the morning. That's what the right woman can do.

"Sometimes they even get married, and he brings her back home. They have kids, make a life. Sometimes it's good."

She's tilts her head, pushes her hair back out of her face and he watches her do it, seems momentarily distracted by it even, and his fingers twitch again. And then he swallows and continues.

"Sometimes it ain't so good." He sighs, steals another glance at her. "Happens even less, but sometimes you see guys with wives and kids pretending they don't got a life back home. That it don't matter what they do or who they fuck because it ain't like he's gonna have it written all over his face when he gets back to his old lady."

He pauses and she reaches out then, takes his hand in hers. He watches silently as she curls her fingers through his, as he does the same.

"But they do," she's not sure if it's a statement or a question but he nods.

"And their wives," he carries on. "They know. They fucking know. They also tell themselves it doesn't matter, like it's part of another life or something. But you can see it. You can see it in their eyes."

He stops again, tightens his fingers on her. "I never wanted to see Maria look at me like that. Not even for a second. I didn't even want her to wonder."

She wants to tell him it's okay, that he doesn't need to do this. Doesn't need to tell her these things. She gets it. She trusts him. Like Claire and Foggy, he's loyal to a fucking fault. It's his code, his honour. It might even be built into his fucking cells and he doesn't need to say it, explain it. But when he looks at her and his eyes are dark and filled with something deep and desperate, she lets him carry on.

"I never stepped out. I never even wanted to. I couldn't do that. Not to my wife, my kids."

She nods slowly. This is starting to make some kind of twisted sense in her head. The kind of sense that only comes with understanding those fragments of Frank Castle's inner dialogue. The way he looks at the world and how he tells himself he fits into it. The kind of understanding that only comes with seeing him wracked with guilt and falling apart in front of three grey headstones in a deserted graveyard on a night still too raw to talk about.

"Now I ain't expecting a medal for that. I don't believe you should get praise for doing what you should, what you promised you'd do. Those pricks that want a fucking prize for not cheating were almost fucking worse than the ones that did.

"But I just need you to know that this… this thing that Nurse Temple is talking about with us… it's important to me. I never thought this could happen to me and fuck, I still don't know _how_ it's happening…"

He trails off, looks away again to where Pickle has materialised seemingly out of nowhere and is winding herself around his legs, standing on his feet, her little black paw covering the nasty scar where once upon a time he let an asshole drill through his foot and then gave it all up to save a fighting dog.

(Matt told her a lot about what happened with Frank after his Big Reveal aka Prince of Lies aka How The Fuck Did You Not See This Karen Page. In many ways it felt as if he was suddenly tasting truth for the first time and decided he liked the flavour, got high on it and couldn't get enough. The more cynical part of her thinks it was an attempt to ingratiate himself to her after everything that happened, to see if he could get back into her good graces by answering all the questions she had and some that she didn't. What he didn't realise was that that was another life. And she was another Karen Page.)

She squeezes his hand, lets her thumb brush his wrist so she can feel his pulse fluttering beneath his skin.

He's not finished but she can see he's trying to find a way to say what he needs to, that he's picking his words carefully and turning all the permutations of their meaning over and over in his head.

She reaches out, touches his face, trails her thumb along his jaw and over his lips, and then runs her hand to his neck, his shoulder.

"It's okay Frank. You can say it."

But he can't. And she realises that what's happening here is he's working through parts of it, processing what doesn't hurt too much and when he gets too close to the bone he retreats, wraps himself up in the fog and waits for it to ease. Comes back for a second round. Comes back to try again.

He takes a breath. Straightens his shoulders, seemingly finds something he _can_ say, something he wants to share that won't break him.

"I just want you to know that I took my life before this seriously… I loved Maria more than anything in the goddamn world. I still do. But I ain't there in that graveyard with her. I'm here. I'm here with you. And that means something too."

He leaves the rest unsaid but she can fill in the gaps. Somewhere between the pain and the guilt, there's something else. Something that looks so very much like love and relief and longing that there's no point in trying to tell the difference. And if he did, he wouldn't be able to articulate it anyway because it wouldn't mean anything.

"Frank," she says softly. "Look at me Frank."

He hesitates for a second, but he does as she asks and his eyes are hard and black and he's still the toughest meanest son of a bitch she ever met. And he's also the sweetest man in the world. And both of these things are true. Frank Castle, 50% mass murderer, 50% lost puppy. 100% hot mess.

She brings his hand to her lips and kisses each scabbed, raw knuckle and next to her he shivers, skin turning to gooseflesh. "I don't think after everything that you've done, that anyone could doubt how seriously you take it. I just don't think that's possible. I don't think that's something you need to worry about. Ever."

He makes a dry sound in the back of his throat and when she looks up from his hand he's still staring at her, head cocked and a sad smile playing on the corner of his lips. But his eyes are soft and some of the tension has gone from his shoulders.

He nods.

"Guess I'm not the one and done man I thought I was…" There's no malice in it. There's even a hint of dry humour if she's honest.

She shakes her head. "I shouldn't have said that. That was cruel."

"No," his voice is lower than before, barely more than a whisper. "You were right. Not entirely. But you were. Like I said, I'm here."

It's true. He is. He may have come to her to die but he didn't. He lived and wants to continue to do so. And it isn't just because it's hard to punish from beyond the grave, because there's still scum in Hell's Kitchen and he wants the streets to flow red with their blood. That's some of it, but not all and she's willing to give into the vanity that says some part of it _is_ for her. Because he cares. Because he loves.

 _Don't you know?_

He touches her face, runs his knuckles along her jaw slowly and his voice is thick when he speaks.

"I'm not done either."

It makes her heart ache. More than anything he's said up to now, more than any half confessions or subtle promises. It kills something inside her, murders it more viciously than anything or anyone he's ever gone after and she gasps at the loss, at the sudden unfamiliarity of what she's feeling. And it takes a moment for her to realise that the thing he just took from her and destroyed and punished was doubt. Doubt and fear of this and of him and of herself. A long-held truth she clung to that wasn't truth at all.

Tears. She knew there would be. They don't even surprise her with how fast they come, how her vision clouds and the wetness spills on her cheeks and onto his hand. She makes no attempt to hide them.

It's who she is. The realisation doesn't hurt, it's the time wasted on it. It's how it's so easy to let go and now there's a wonderful empty space inside her waiting for to be filled with something else.

She looks at him: his eyes and how they're eating her up, climbing inside her, seeing everything, taking her secrets and keeping them safe; his jaw and the tension in it as he bites down hard on the inside of his cheeks. She runs a thumb along his cheekbone and then into his hair, says his name and he nods.

He gets it. He _knows_.

He won't say anymore about this for now, she doesn't need to have Matt's bat ears or bloodhound nose to understand that. He said more than he thought he would, told her more than he ever has and it's not hard to see that it's hurting again, slicing away at his flesh and bones, and he needs to retreat, find himself a safe space before he tackles anymore.

She needs that too.

She opens her arms. _Come here. Let me hold you and soothe you. Let me do that for you. And you, you can do that for me too. Take that part of me you just killed away and let something else grow there instead._

He does. And it's easy because he somehow just fits against her, sliding into place like a puzzle piece, his arms firm and tight around her, hands pressing hard on her shoulder blades as he buries his face in her hair, breathes her in like she's air and he's suffocating.

And maybe he is. Maybe they both are. Maybe the rain brought the air back into the world last night but they've found other ways to leave each other gasping.

It's okay though. It's okay that he's pressedup tight against her and all she can feel is the smoothness of his skin and the heat of his blood pumping through his veins. It's okay for her to want this, to _need_ this. And it's okay for him too. He deserves it. He deserves some peace. They both do.

"You're too good to me Karen Page," his breath is hot on her and she shuts her eyes against the shiver that shoots down her spine, leaves her trembling. "Too fucking strong for me too."

He pauses and she thinks he's finished, that he'll let her hold him for a while and not say anything else. But he's Frank, he's nothing if not unpredictable - maybe even to himself.

He's tentative at first, butterfly kisses against her skin, fingers flexing and tracing the knobs of her spine all the way up to the nape of her neck. And she can't help it. She arches her back and curves towards him, gripping at his shoulders, hands sliding into his hair. And then he's dragging her closer, lips fusing to her throat while his hands move over her; one groping for the hem of her top, sliding underneath the flimsy material and covering her ribs, the other dropping to her thigh, trailing over her until his fingers brush over her scabs and curl around the back of her knee.

"Kinda woman that makes a man weak," His voice is gravel, thick and strained and his words sound like a confession, an admission of the worst kind of sin. The kind that she feels deep in her bones when she looks at him and sees the way he looks back. The kind that isn't asking for absolution and doesn't want it.

And despite this - or maybe because of it - she knows she _should_ send him on his way, tell him to say a hundred - no a thousand, no _ten thousand_ \- Hail Marys, recite the Lord's Prayer over and over until it's all he knows, make him work his fingers to the bone for penance and atone for what he's done and doing. But then his mouth is on her again, stubble scraping against her shoulder, tongue darting out to taste her, to lick at the lines of her collarbones, the hollows of her clavicles; the swell of breast where just last night he smeared his blood across her and claimed her again for his own.

It does something to her, something she's not sure she cares too much to define or analyse. Heat blooming inside her, body quivering as she presses herself hard against the hand splayed on her side, and he's gripping her so tightly to hold her in place that she's almost sure there'll be bruises. Marks. His marks.

It doesn't matter. Let him carve himself into her skin, the same way he's carved himself into her heart. Let him stain her the way he's stained her walls, the way he's stained her clothes.

He's talking. She realises it through the fog, his words still heavy and cracked and half nonsense, half God's honest truth.

"Bring a man to his knees, you do," his teeth scrape along her shoulder and his palm moves up the back of her thigh so that his fingertips rest just under the edge of her shorts.

"I don't want to make you weak Frank," she murmurs but even as she's saying it she's tugging at him, urging him closer, tilting her head so his lips find the curve of her neck and he can press wet kisses into her skin.

"Too late. Far too fucking late."

And it is. Way too fucking late because his hand is moving over the bumps of her ribs, stroking her where she was once bruised and he had his hands on her for a whole different reason. Except it was the same. They just didn't know it yet.

They should stop. They _should_. There's a million reasons why this shouldn't happen, why this _can't_ happen. But he feels so good on her, his hands and his mouth and the way he's subtly maneuvering her to where he wants her to be; pressing her thighs apart and letting his thumb brush the underside of her breast and sending a cascade of sparks through her skin and down her spine to settle hot and demanding between her legs.

He's still kissing her, lips working their way up to her jaw, over her pulse and she knows if he gets to her mouth they're done. That she won't be able to put the brakes on, turn this around, beat it back down into its box and its place on the list of Things Karen Page Really Wants But Shouldn't Think About Right Now. If he kisses her, actually kisses her properly, deep and long and wet like she knows it will be, it'll be the point of no return. And she doesn't know why she's created this artificial boundary in her head, why his tongue against hers gets to be the deciding factor when his one hand is almost on her naked breast and his other is dragging her into him so he can press himself, hard and pulsing, against her.

She doesn't get it, but she doesn't much care to either.

"Frank," she murmurs as his teeth scrape over her chin, as his hand under her top rises an infinitesimally small distance and the pad of his thumb rests firm against the swell of her breast.

He's not listening to her - not even a little bit - and, to be fair, she's barely listening to herself either because her blood is pounding in her head and it's taking every last iota of willpower not to climb into his lap and grind herself down hard against his crotch, take him and ride him and have him like she's been imagining having him since that night she undressed behind him and hoped he'd turn around and look at her. See her. Take her.

And she hates herself for what she's about to do. What she _has_ to do.

"Frank," she says again in a voice that sounds nothing like hers. "Frank, we can't do this. Not now."

For a second he freezes. Freezes everything. His hands on her, his lips against her. She's not even sure he's breathing and she realises in that moment, that he takes his army training with him everywhere. His military precision, his control, his perceptive skills and his ability to follow orders. And there's something in that that scares her, but there's something else, deeper and darker and wilder that thrills her and send a _frisson_ of pleasure meandering down her spine to join the now molten heat between her thighs.

And then he releases her, shifts away slightly, hands moving out from under her clothes and to her wrists, thumbs pressing firm against her pulse. She doesn't think he'll look at her, thinks it'll be another of those occasions where he can't meet her eyes, but he does.

"Too much?" he asks.

She shakes her head. _No. Never too much. Never ever too much._

Not with him.

"It's just…" it's her turn to trail off, her turn to suffocate. "It's just Claire said…"

He snorts, shakes his head. "Nurse Temple doesn't believe in fun does she? Best fuckin' medic I ever met, but she really fuckin' gives me a hard time when you're not here."

She grins. "Gives you a hard time when I am here too."

"Gives me a hard time even when _she's_ not here."

She chuckles and he does too and it's easy and it's not weird despite what just happened - and what didn't happen. And she might not know how to feel about The Punisher sleeping in her bed and holding her hard enough to break her but she knows how to feel about this; about his strange quirked smile and the fading black bruises under his eyes, the small scab on his lip where she marked him and herself. She's happy she realises. And she hasn't been happy for a long time. And when she looks at him she thinks there might be the seed of something like that growing inside of him too. Yes, it's weak and there's almost no sunlight, no nourishment because he's dark and cold and sometimes it's easy to think he has no soul, but it's there. And she can nurture it, she can save it.

She touches his face again, runs a thumb along his lips and then leans in and kisses his cheek.

"It's not Claire," she says.

She's not sure if she even needs to say it but they don't lie. They don't.

He nods, suddenly sober.

"Yeah." He says. "I know it's not."

 _I know._

xxx

She reads to him later. He asks her to and he lies on the bed with his head in her lap, Pickle asleep on his belly, and listens to her rattle of the day's headlines. There's not much going on for a Thursday: some ship sank off the coast and a magician with a dancing dog looks set to win _America's Got Talent_. Smirnov is throwing another shindig for the Hell's Kitchen elite, whoever the fuck that might be, and some _Days of our Lives_ star has been arrested for cocaine possession. All in all, it's a slow news day, not really worth the read, but she likes the feel of Frank against her, the way he's holding her wrist and drawing abstract patterns on her forearm so she drags it out as long as she can. But, when she gets to the latest rift in the Kardashian family, he all but begs her to stop and she laughs and runs her fingers through his hair.

"Don't you want to know what Kanye said about Khloe's thighs?" she asks and he glares at her in a way which tells her he has a lot of opinions about this and none of them have anything to do with Khloe's legs, nor Mr West's feelings on them.

She shrugs, sets her phone down. "Guess that's it then. If you don't care about Khloe's thighs then I don't know what to tell you. May as well pack it in."

She gets a half smile.

"Read something else," he glances at the bedside table. "Read that."

It's not contrived, or manipulated. It can't be, but when she follows his gaze and it settles on the blue book of Bukowski poems that Matt gave her it feels like one of those moments when fate decided to step in and tweak the world to its design. The same cruel bitch of a universe that made Frank what he is and then sent him weak and bloodied and ready to die to her door is up to her cruel tricks again, stick her fucking nose in where it doesn't belong.

And the irony, the great irony of it all, is that Karen Page: _intrepid reporter, lover of vigilantes and holder back of tears under extreme duress_ , isn't even sure if she does believe in fate. If, at the end of the day, all her ranting at the universe is just an excuse not to take control and responsibility. Not to accept that we're all alone on a little blue dot zooming through an endlessly dark universe with no direction or destination in mind.

"Karen?" he asks, moving slightly so he can take her hand out of his hair and put it on his chest.

"Yeah, sure," she says. Sure, why not take a collection of angry Bukowski nonsense given to you by one suitor and read it to another? That's not a thing right? Not against the rules or something?

 _(I won't tell your one vigilante boyfriend that your other vigilante boyfriend is spending the night)_

And no, he's not her boyfriend. Neither of them are. And she hasn't really thought about Matt since she opened the book, hasn't spoken to him since that one phone call when Frank lay sleeping and bloodied in her bed. There's just been too much going on and she really doesn't want him sniffing around while Frank is here anyway. Again, not for any nefarious reason about keeping him hanging on in the hope that one day his affections will be returned, but more because he's Matt and if he knows where Frank is he's going to start hounding him to "do the right thing" and "give himself up" and that's a shit show she does not want to see go down in her living room. Or anywhere else for that matter.

"Karen?" Frank asks again and she looks down at him, snaps out of it.

This she can do. This is just reading. It's simple.

She reaches for the book, opens it on a random page and when she glances at him, he nods.

It's tough going. Bukowski often is. There are moments though, moments of flashing insight and beautiful prose that cut hard and sharp but they are few and far between the maudlin rambles, the bitterness, the heavy drinking and crudeness in the name of "telling it like it is". She can see Frank frowning more and more as she reads, pursing his lips as if he can't quite figure out why someone would commit pen to paper over this. At the same time she can see he doesn't want her to stop, that maybe lying here with her, holding her hand over his racing heart so that she has to struggle to turn the pages, is more important to him than freeing himself of poetry he doesn't quite get and is not sure he wants to.

And it's so silly because she will stay. She said she would.

She doesn't need excuses.

It's a poem entitled _This Then_ from _Love is a Dog from Hell_ that eventually puts an end to it.

She starts reading:

 _it's the same as before_  
 _or the other time_  
 _or the time before that._ _  
_here's a…

She stops. The next line is

 _"here's a cock_  
 _and here's a cunt_  
and here's trouble."

And she's not a prude, she isn't. But she can't sit here reading about cunts and cocks to Frank Castle. It's just too much. It's overkill and she wonders again why Matt thought this gift made sense.

"I'm sorry," she says. "This is X-rated and I don't think Pickle is old enough to hear it."

Frank quirks an eyebrow, reaches up and pulls the book out of her hands, scans the page and when he sees it, he snaps the covers shut and tosses it to the end of the bed.

"Why did you buy that crap?"

"It was a gift."

"For killing someone's goldfish? Did you tell someone their baby was ugly?"

She laughs.

Fingers back in his hair, his hand trailing down her arm gently. "No, my birthday."

He goes still, another frown, brows knitting.

"It was your birthday?" Voice gentle, tentative.

She nods. It's not a big thing but she thinks he's going to make it into one.

"When?"

Thumb across the line of his cheekbone, stubble rough against her skin.

"Last Friday."

He takes a second and she can see him counting off the days in his head, thinking back to that night that seems like it was a million years ago and like they've climbed mountains and crossed oceans in between.

He swears under his breath as he pushes himself up, Pickle grumbling as he moves her off his belly and onto the pillow.

"It's okay Frank."

"No," he shakes his head, turns to look at her. "That's fucking awful."

"Frank…"

"I don't even remember most of that night," he says.

Truth is neither does she. There are moments that stand out: finding him outside, getting him upstairs, calling Claire. His blood circling the drain, his hand in her hair and the way he breathed her in. The way his grip was weak, lax, and didn't feel like him at all.

"It's okay," she says and he's looking at her like he's trying to catch her out in a lie. "It wasn't a big birthday-"

"Sure it was."

She eyes him for a moment. He still hasn't bothered with a shirt and not for the first time she feels a pang of regret at managing to keep her head earlier, at not undressing the rest of him and climbing him like a fucking tree. She could be naked now, she realises, naked and satiated and tasting his skin.

"It really wasn't."

He shakes his head in a way that tells her he doesn't think she'll get this and he doesn't want to waste time arguing with her about it. And suddenly she realises that her far-fetched and wholly ridiculous thoughts about how he might one day romance her, how she might tap into that part of him and spend Christmas and Thanksgiving and birthdays with him may not be so far-fetched or ridiculous at all.

He's Frank. He's batshit crazy and mean as fuck, but he's also a family man. He's the man who bought his son a remote-controlled jeep for his birthday and read his daughter a story every night. These things are meaningful to him. They _matter_.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"All I was going to do was eat a cake all by myself and watch bad TV," she touches his face. "Instead I got you."

"Not much of a consolation prize," he says but he's smiling too. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"No need. I have what I want. It's all good."

And it is.

He studies her for a few long seconds before he ducks his head, lies down at her side, arm curling over her belly again.

"Too good to me Karen Page," he says. "Too good and a goddamn fool."

She shrugs. It still changes precisely nothing.

xxx

Later, she tells him a secret.

The rain is still beating hard against the windows and the wind howls shrilly through the streets and she lies in her bed with him behind her, his arms engulfing her and fingers threaded through her own. They didn't even discuss it, didn't debate the bed or their relative claims to sleep in it. They just got in, moved close and held each other.

"You're wrong," she whispers.

His mood is still good and he grumbles dramatically behind her.

"I ain't ever wrong about anything."

She snorts and he does too.

"You are about this."

More muttering.

"And what's that?"

"I'm not really strong. Not at all," she says and she feels him shift and push himself up so he can look at her, hand slipping out of hers and onto her bicep.

She turns slightly, cranes her neck so she can see him, the tight line of his jaw, the black eyes that look like holes in his head and she wonders how much of him that skull he wears has consumed, if they're now one and the same. Indistinguishable.

But they're not. Because he's here and he's kind and she's found the goodness in him and so help her, she will see it blossom, she will keep it safe.

He's quiet for a while and his gaze is hard, boring into her until she's sure he's found a way to crack her open and see her innermost thoughts, her heart.

"Bullshit." He says eventually.

She smiles, shakes her head.

"I can be. I have my moments when I can do things I didn't think I could. But those are just moments Frank. And maybe one day the moments will become something else, but they're not now. When things hurt me, hurt me badly, I... I can't let them go," she tries not to think of Wesley's twitching corpse, nor the number of rounds she emptied into him, but she does and she knows Frank sees it. "They carry on hurting and I don't know how to make them stop."

"That ain't got nothing to do with strength," he says and she loves him for his honesty, his goodness, his lack of artifice. "Ain't about how _much_ you hurt or _if_ you hurt. It's about what you do when it hurts."

"I guess I just want you to know that I'm not someone anyone should be weak for."

"That's bullshit too."

His fingers twitch on her.

"Not bullshit Frank. I told you yesterday, sometimes I barely get through the day without crumbling."

"But you do."

She shakes her head. "You don't know how much I cry."

He stares at her again for a long while, brow furrowed and eyes searching hers for something she's not sure he'll find. "You say that like you think it matters."

"Maybe it does."

He shrugs, presses his mouth against her shoulder. "Maybe it doesn't. Either way it don't mean you ain't strong."

He settles behind her, tugs her in close until her back is flush with his belly, and she can feel his cock, hard and throbbing, against her.

Not inconsequential, not anymore.

The big, bad Punisher in her bed. Karen Page right there with him. Neither of them going anywhere, neither of them wanting to.

But she's here. She's safe.

And she will stay.


	9. We might find our happy ending

**Title is from Bon Jovi's _I Am_.**

* * *

Friday.

She calls a cab to take her to work and Frank insists on paying for it. He tells her she'd have her car if it wasn't for him and he'll be damned if she's got to take the bus or walk through the rain because he couldn't keep his ass in one place.

She tells him not to be so hard on himself but she also doesn't refuse him. She does however turn down his offer to drive her back to the graveyard to pick up her car. And she can see something akin to relief on his face when she does. He shouldn't be driving, he really shouldn't. Even with his apparent progress and the fact that it looks very likely he'll be back to his old self within a day or two, he shouldn't be doing anything that puts too much stress on his body. But that's not really the crux of the problem. He's faced worse than a few stab wounds and some torn stitches and he'll overcome those too. No, it's that she's pretty sure that the graveyard is the last place he needs to be right now. It's still too real and too raw and while he seems less likely to become overwhelmed and consumed by everything again, she doesn't really want to test fate just yet.

So she sits on the bed in the strange morning half light, holding his hands, coffee turning cold on the bedside table, and tells him to take it easy. She'll take another cab to fetch her car after she's finished at work - yes he can pay for that too - and then she's coming home. They'll order Thai or Vietnamese and she'll figure out how she's going to sleep with him for the next however long and not go out of her head with the deep-seated ache that's now made its home between her legs.

She doesn't say the last part, but it's a pretty serious consideration and one that she thinks he's equally concerned about.

It's funny though. She wants him, she knows she does. And he wants her too. They've stopped pretending, because pretending feels almost like lying and they don't lie. But, at the same time, the desire she feels seems to be something she's happy to savour. Every touch, every shiver, every gentle kiss that just misses her mouth or lingers feels precious, like the thing they're building up to is just as important as the journey to get there.

And maybe it is. There's no reason to rush and every reason not to. For both of them.

He's not ready. And, in her own way which is completely different from his, she isn't either.

"You be safe Karen," he tells her. "Rain like this, it makes people do weird shit."

He's right. It does. But she's not worried about other people, she's worried about him.

She leans in, presses her lips to his cheek, stays like that a moment too long and doesn't miss how he closes his eyes and his fingers grip tight against her wrist.

"You get some rest," she says.

"All I damn well do is rest."

"Then do it better than you have been."

He huffs but doesn't say anything and when she pulls back and makes to leave, he touches her jaw with his knuckles. It's a small thing, tiny even, but it seems it's become one of _his_ things. The same way "ma'am" was until they both realised he needed to move on from it. The same way "don't you know" _is_ and they'll never leave that behind no matter how hard the situation calls for its absence.

"Frank, I have to go." She's already late and she doesn't want the cab to sit outside and wait for too long. Irene is already as suspicious as fuck and she doesn't want to give the damned woman more cause for concern although she really doesn't know why she cares.

He nods, hand dropping into his lap, but he's looking at her like he has half a mind to pull her back, hold her prisoner and whisk her away to a place where things like jobs and responsibilities and general adulting are nothing but vaguely unpleasant memories that no one spends any time thinking about.

And given the choice she just might go. She just might.

She stands, and immediately Pickle moves into her place so that her furry little body is pressed against Frank's hip and her paws rest on his skin.

Hazard fluff indeed.

She touches Pickle's head, grabs her purse and goes to the door. And she knows he's going to call her even before she puts her hand on the doorknob. And maybe she _should_ worry because the last time he did this he went missing and she spent hours looking for him, only to find a beast in his place. But it's different now.

 _They're_ different now.

"Karen," his voice is low but there's a cheerfulness to it, a kind of warmth he seems to reserve only for her. "What flavour was it?"

She frowns at him and he hurries to continue.

"The cake," he says. "The one you were going to eat all by yourself."

Oh _that_. Again it seems so long ago.

"Ginger and chocolate with a gingersnap frosting. Has to have the frosting or else it isn't right."

He gives her that crooked smile before looking away, hooking his fingers around Pickle's tail and earning himself a half-hearted warning growl for his trouble. He's biting at his bottom lip hard and she realises there's something in this conversation that's seemingly both entertaining and a little painful for him. And, not for the first time, it amuses her how well she can read him; how she's come to love his face and all the stories it tells her.

So she watches him, waits for him to reveal his secrets.

"Gingersnaps eh?" he says glancing back up at her. "You were gonna eat it in the broom closet? Pretend you were in a spaceship?"

For a second she's surprised he remembers. He was in such a bad way when she told him that. Not just bloodied and beaten, a fucking hole drilled in his foot and eyes so badly swollen she doesn't know how much he could see out of them, but completely overwhelmed too. And then he still relived everything that happened, walked her through his home and his life and explained the truths of it to her.

So no, he shouldn't remember inconsequential details of her childhood fantasies, but then again he's Frank, and she thinks she's starting to gauge the reality of him too. It's not like Matt. It's not that you can't hide things from him because he'll smell it on you or hear it in the way your blood pumps through your veins, taste your lies in the air. It's that Frank's mind works differently. It's efficient and complex and analytical, constantly searching for solutions to problems; finding connections and information where other people wouldn't even bother to look. She thinks if she got a peek inside, it would be perfectly organised, everything labeled and categorised so that he can pull it up at a second's notice. He has lists too. She's pretty damn sure of it now.

She grins at him. "Yeah. I'd have let you join me but you were bleeding all over my floor and it would have been a tight fit anyway."

He barks out a laugh. "Excuses, excuses. You just didn't want to share."

She shrugs, fixes him with as serious a look as she can. "You don't share gingersnaps with just anyone."

He smiles. "And here I was kinda hoping I wasn't just anyone."

"Yeah, but we _are_ talking about gingersnaps Frank."

He laughs again and she can't help herself when she does too. And it feels so good just to laugh with him. To forget all the bullshit, all the stuff that should keep them apart and wary of one another.

"I have to go Frank."

She can see he wishes she wouldn't - that she could stay and spend the day with him again, snuggled up together under the duvet and letting the world outside fuck itself over in any which way it pleases. She doesn't have that luxury though.

And in a while, neither will he.

xxx

Ellison's in some meeting with the board when she gets in, so her still righteous fury needs to be put on hold until he's done.

And that could be a while, Joe tells her as she walks to her office with him on her heels, it was an emergency meeting called yesterday and Ellison was none too pleased about it.

She finds this mildly interesting. Mildly disconcerting too. The paper is not doing too badly. Ad revenue is up and so are subscriptions. Off-the-shelf sales have suffered some attrition but nothing below normal. But when the board gets involved things tend to go downhill. Ellison's confided to her that they will literally rather do anything than try and solve the actual problems which are understaffing and an absence of marketing drives. She gets it. These things are boring - they're not tangible while flashy new websites and redesigns are. But they're still the heart of the issue, and she feels a pang of sympathy for Ellison as she thinks of him sitting in that meeting trying to explain basic stuff like why the paper needs a picture editor, or how the website does not need a section for people to submit their cat pictures.

"You okay today?" asks Joe as she unlocks her office.

"Yeah, I was just a little under the weather."

"I was right about the rain," he says slightly smugly as he glances to her window and the black clouds outside.

"You were," she agrees.

"Did you get caught in it? On Wednesday?"

"A little," she says mildly.

"I hope it wasn't too bad."

She wants to laugh. _No, no it wasn't too bad. I listened to the man I love say vile things to me and then watched him fall apart over his dead wife and children. I hurt him and he hurt me back and then I held him while the rage bled out of him. And afterwards I took him home and we made love without even really touching._

It sounds very dramatic in her head and she knows it would sound worse if she actually heard the words spoken, but it's the truth.

She sits down, opens her laptop and looks pointedly at Joe who's lingering now and making no move to get back to his desk. "Haven't you got some weather to make up?"

He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, clutches his heart theatrically. "It's like you don't appreciate what I do at all."

She smiles. Whatever her personal feelings on weathermen and -women and their fast and loose relationship with the truth, Joe is a good guy. Decent and sweet and some lady somewhere will be really lucky to have him. And for a moment she feels that pang in her heart, that longing for the ordinary Karen Page who'd live an ordinary life.

But, she thinks again, if Matt was talking to another Karen Page when he did his Big Reveal, then the Karen that wants ordinary to be the defining factor of her existence is so far away from who she is now she can barely picture her anymore.

The Punisher sleeps in her bed and she happily sleeps there with him. She loves him, she wants to be with him, she wants to _fuck_ him. And even though she knows that at heart these are normal desires, there's hardly anything ordinary about it at all.

He's a mass murderer. Nothing is going to change that. No amount of pointing out that he's also a good man makes the slightest bit of difference. And there's a big scary part of her that doesn't care.

Joe says something about needing to get back to his desk to call the meteorology department because, contrary to popular belief, his job does entail more than looking out the window. He says he'll catch her at lunch and she nods and opens her laptop, checks her email to see if she's missed anything important.

Luckily, there's not much other than a reminder to sign up for dental, a few responses to interview requests, and a message from Ellison with a link to the paper's sabbatical benefits ... because he won't let this book thing go and apparently he's now started the carrot part of his pitch.

For interest's sake she skims it and, if she's honest, she likes what she sees. The time given for writing depends on the projected size of the book as well as potential sales. The advance is worked out as a percentage of yearly salary with the remainder paid once the book has gone to press. Ellison has even said that, as this is a special case, he's happy for her to continue writing for _The Bulletin_ during that time on a contractual basis, meaning she can still make up her salary on freelancing fees. The truth is though, with the advance and writing one or two articles per week at their standard rate, she could easily end up making more than she is now. Considerably more.

She can't deny it, it really is a good offer … if she was in any way inclined to take him up on it. But she's not so she closes the email and gets on with catching up on some work.

And to her surprise it goes well. She's a little slow and her prose feels awkward but on the whole she feels like she covers a lot of ground and she doesn't think about the half-naked Punisher in her bed and how all she wants to do is go back home and climb in there with him. She _doesn't_.

She manages to schedule some interviews for the following week and sub some late copy from one of the entertainment writers. It isn't her job but the copy editors are swamped and likely to throw a fit over stylesheet errors, so she helps out anyway.

She grabs lunch from the office canteen - some kind of cheese pasta thing that Joe affectionately describes as a "bowl of cardiac arrest" - and takes it to her desk, But it's entirely too tasteless to risk a heart attack for and she ends up throwing most of it away.

Outside the rain continues to fall by the bucketload and thunder rumbles ominously in the distance and it really is the dreariest Friday in the whole world. She accepts that this is better than the stifling heat and the air too thick to breathe from the previous few days, but not by much.

It's Foggy that brings a little sunshine to her afternoon.

She's halfway through transcribing an interview with a woman who runs a homeless shelter on the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen when her phone rings and his face pops up on the screen. She takes a second to grin at his picture before answering - his hair is a mess and he's sticking out his tongue and she remembers he was attempting to do an impression of Gene Simmons sans the makeup. It was one of those nights when they drank too much and ate too little and spent too much time hoping Matt would show up until they ended up at a karaoke bar in Brooklyn where they did shots and Foggy decided he had a career in a metal band.

 _I got it going on Karen, I have the hair and everything,_ he told her, _I'm a natural._

She told him he was. That she'd be his manager and they'd sell out across the world.

It was a good night. A night that seems all too far away now.

She answers and he skips all formalities and launches right in.

"My guess is that since you haven't called a national emergency, you found your runaway and he's been soundly thrashed?"

She chuckles. "Yeah I did. He's home."

"And the thrashing?"

"Left that up to Claire."

"Nurse Temple is always happy to do the dirty work," he pauses and she can hear traffic in the background, wonders if he's driving. "That's the thing about stray dogs though. They need a firm hand. You gotta show them who's boss."

She laughs again. "Yeah sure Foggy. I'm the boss of Frank Castle."

"Jesus fucking Christ Karen, I don't need those kind of details."

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head.

"Is he okay though? He's still my client so I should show some concern."

She sighs. "About as okay as Frank Castle gets. It's all relative you know."

She hears him grunt. "Ain't that the truth."

She asks about Marci who's apparently fine but going to be working late a lot as she has a big case coming up. Foggy grumbles a little that she's more concerned about missing out on spending time with Luna than she is about not seeing him.

"It's surprising how attached you can become to devil spawn," Foggy says in a voice so defeated that she knows he's been won over by Luna and her slobbery charm.

"We're used to it though," she says. "Friends with Matt and all."

He's quiet for a few seconds and then she gets a grudging "Touche Karen Page. Touche."

He pauses and when he speaks again he sounds more serious than before. "Speaking of Matt - and that's _not_ the reason I called - he's been asking about you… and also about why I smell like I have a dog but that's neither here nor there. Seems quite worried but doesn't want to go and check on you himself. Says you wouldn't like that."

She can hear the hint of trepidation in his voice. Foggy is wonderful and loyal and everything a friend should be, which is why he's not entirely wrong when he claims he feels like a child of divorce. He holds his own though. She knows he does and he's more than capable of telling both her and Matt when to fuck off.

"I'm assuming he doesn't know you and Frank have shacked up?"

"It's hardly shacking up Foggy."

"Sure sure Karen. Born at night and all that…"

"He'll be out of there as soon as he's well again."

Foggy makes a sound like he's never heard anything more ridiculous in his whole life.

"Look, talk to him, don't talk to him. I don't have a dog in this fight and I'm not going to tell him anything. Not because I particularly like keeping secrets from him but because this isn't any of his business. But Karen, Matt's smart and he knows things and you know as well as I do that if you and Frank become a thing, or are a thing, or whatever, then Matt will find out."

He's right. He's so _so_ right. But at the same time he's also right that it's none of Matt's business. She doesn't need to explain or justify herself to him. And frankly, she's tired of the pressure to do so. They were a one-time thing and it was sweet and it was romantic and maybe it could have worked out if not for everything that came after. And maybe it's even a little sad that it didn't and that they never got the chance to explore who they were when they were with each other. But it is what it is and the time has passed. And Matthew Murdock is just going to have to find a way to deal with that.

"I know," she says and when he's quiet on the other end of the line she takes it as an opportunity to carry on. "Things with Frank aren't straightforward though. The last thing I need is Matt getting involved."

"Amen to that."

She laughs.

"Anyway," Foggy's voice goes muffled for a few seconds and then comes back louder than before. "I know you got yourself a man friend who would probably put me on a meathook just for asking, but are you busy Wednesday?"

"What's happening on Wednesday?"

"I'm stealing you and we're going to an undisclosed location where I can have you all for myself."

"Done," she says and he snorts.

"Seriously though, I happen to have an invite to Smirnov's latest fuck-off party and I thought you'd like to go. It'll probably be the last one as the word at the water cooler is that we are ending our contract with them," he sighs and she can hear car horns blaring in the background. "Full disclosure though, I've seen the guest list and Elektra Natchios is on there with a plus one. I'll give you three guesses as to who my money is on for the plus one, the first two don't count."

She smiles, Foggy is sweet and the best friend she could ever hope for but he doesn't need to treat her like glass.

"That's okay," she says. "I'll put my big girl panties on."

"Yeah well hopefully Matt will too," he responds dryly.

"How chic do I need to be?"

"Chic as fuck," He deadpans. "You're going to be on _my_ arm remember. I expect you to look out for my reputation."

She chuckles and he does too before he suddenly breaks out into a string of curses. "Listen Karen, I have to go. There's an overturned bus on seventh and the traffic is insane but we can chat later?"

"Sure, I'll give you a call."

She says goodbye and hangs up, stares at her phone for a few minutes, the bright screen slowly fading and eventually switching off.

Ellison will freak if he hears she's going to the party but she doesn't much care. He can stick his head in the sand about this all he wants but that doesn't mean she is going to. Besides it's on her own time and she's not attending in any official capacity other than a plus one. But she can hear him already in the back of her head, his voice getting that slightly whingy tone as he goes through the list of good things Smirnov has done for the city. He'll start with the improvement of the theatre and go from there like he always does. The theatre, then the sports field on 17th and finally the town hall on 5th. And when she pushes him or objects, he'll go for the play centre near the river and soup kitchen next to the flea market. It's always the same.

But then she's not feeling particularly warm towards Mitchell "Gutter Journalism" Ellison right now, so she's not exactly in a sharing mood regarding her extra-curricular activities.

And then as if by magic - or because he's been summoned by a demonic incantation to bring forth the denizens of Hell - he's standing at her door. And he's leaning again. And he's still more out than in.

"You feeling better Page?" he asks and he sounds like he's been beaten into the ground and trying to put on a brave face. And for a second, she feels bad about how annoyed she is with him. The board is never pleasant and he looks like he's run the gauntlet.

"Yeah," she says.

He nods, glances back at the rest of the floor and leans in again. "You get my email?"

She sighs.

"Oh come on Karen," and she can hear a hint of genuine frustration in his tone. "It's a great deal. And don't you give me that bullshit about not knowing who Daredevil is and how he won't talk to you. You're a crappy liar."

She pushes her chair away from her desk, purses her lips and looks him in the eye. "Mitchell, it doesn't matter whether I know Daredevil or not. It doesn't matter whether he will speak to me or not. The fact is that I don't want to do it."

He glares back, chewing on the inside of his cheek and she can almost see the synapses firing in his brain as he tries to figure out a way to bully her into this.

"Is it the money?" he asks. "Because we can talk about that."

It's not the money, good as it may be. In fact, the money is the one thing that actually makes this deal tempting and gives her pause. It's good enough that it could make her income go from survivable to decent. She could take a holiday, start a hobby. Hell, she could even move onto bigger and better watering holes than Josie's and that's saying something. No, the real problem is Matt and not because she thinks he won't be on board with this. He'd probably love to tell his story and love it even more if she's the one to write it for him. That isn't the issue. The issue is that basically she's just not really ready to deal with spending that amount of time with him again. The thought of days and days of interviews and talking and getting to know him on a level that she would have never gotten to know him as a girlfriend or a lover just seems wrong somehow. Out of step. Backwards. And the truth is, it frightens her and she doesn't really know why.

"Nothing to do with money."

"Come on Karen," and she can see he's at the end of his patience and she wonders just how bad the board meeting was. "Everyone has a price."

"Well _you_ certainly do."

It's not how she meant to bring it up. She really didn't and she has to fight the urge to clap her hand over her mouth as soon as it's out, but she doesn't. It was bound to happen between Ellison's pushing and wheedling and now that it's on the table they may as well deal with it.

He stares at her for a few long seconds and then finally commits to the inside of her office and shuts the door behind him with a loud thunk.

"You got something you want to say to me?"

He doesn't exactly sound angry, not yet at least. But he sounds like he's preparing for it, getting himself there, his body busy gearing up. He's itching for a fight she realises and she wonders just how badly the board meeting went. And then she wonders just how much she's itching for it too.

She takes a breath, closes her eyes briefly. She won't let this get out of hand. She _won't_. As much as it pisses her off, she _needs_ this gig ... and Ellison _is_ good to her most of the time. And she _should_ let this go. It was only a few inches of column space and it's not like they're giving the _New York Post_ any competition in the sensationalist stakes. But then Frank Castle sleeps in her bed with her and tells her he loves her and she loves him too.

And Karen Page has never been good with "shoulds".

She tosses Wednesday's edition across her desk and Ellison adjusts his glasses, picks it up.

He sees it and when he does, he huffs, pinches the bridge of his nose and puts the paper down again.

"Shoulda known," he says. "Frank Castle always gets your damn panties in a twist."

"Mitchell-"

"For fuck's sake Karen... He. Is. A. Murderer," louder now, more force behind it. "I know there's some anguished man pain revenge fantasy going on there and that makes it sexy or something, but the man _is_ a murderer."

Apparently Frank isn't the only person in her life who doesn't fight fair.

More than anything this last week she's learnt that the truth cuts far deeper than any lies people tell themselves or each other. And Ellison is right. Frank is a murderer. And that changes nothing about how angry the article made her.

"I thought we were better than this," she says. "It's bullshit clickbait and you know it."

"Yeah? Of course I know it Page. I just spent six hours in a fucking board meeting trying to explain that we don't give more coverage to the Illuminati or that guy in Michigan who thinks he saw Jesus in a cauliflower because it's all bullshit. And when that didn't work I had to explain what the point of news coverage is and why we can't use the website for people's personal blogs. And then I had to hear that Monday's issue didn't sell well because in that picture of Daredevil that we used on page three, the trees were too green and we should have made them less green. Apparently the fact that Paul got the print run wrong and only ordered half of what he should from the printers had nothing to do with sales. And he sat there smug as a fucking mob boss and denied he made the mistake even though the fucking order sheet was there in black and white in front of him. So yeah, I know it's clickbait. I know it's dirty. I also know it's what we have to do."

Everything he says is true. Everything. But none of it is good enough.

"Frank Castle deserves better than this," she says. "You can't let me write about heroes and what they mean for a place like Hell's Kitchen and then turn around and show him as a monster. It's not fair."

"Not fair?" he rolls his eyes, throws his hands up in what must be the most theatrical display of frustration she's ever seen from him. "I thought you were smarter than this Karen. You can't honestly think that fairness comes into anything we do?"

"It's just-"

"No. It's not _just_ anything. Do you think it's _fair_ that we shove cameras in mothers' faces when their children die? Do you think it's fair that last week Joan in repro sat with a picture of a 19-year-old model for four hours to make her - and I quote 'more booby and less hippy'? Hell, do you think it's fair that our entertainment page leads with the latest Kardashian scandal pretty much every day?" He stops, looks at her like he's seeing her for the first time and he's none too pleased about what he's finding. "Jesus Christ, if you want fair go and work for the fucking Peace Corps or save puppies or something."

"All I'm saying is that we don't need to do unnecessary shit that makes the world less fair than it already is."

Ellison snorts, shakes his head like he literally can't believe what he's hearing. And maybe he can't. Maybe this game really does taint you after you've done it for a few years.

"Let's cut the bullshit Page. You're not going to come in here bitching at me the next time I run a piece on Fisk and whatever agony I can dig up from his past. Hell, I could probably run an expose on his ex lovers talking about the size of his dick and you wouldn't blink an eye. This has got nothing to do with integrity. This is all about Frank Castle. We wouldn't be having this conversation if it wasn't for him."

He's mostly right. And it hurts that he is, even though it's not _all_ about Frank. It's about her too. It's about how he's letting the paper flip flop on its stance towards the Punisher. A stance she created when she wrote her first piece. And for some reason that kills her a little bit and she can't let it go.

"It's not about Frank Castle, it's-"

"Bullcrap. It _is_ all about him. Did he put you up to this? Send you in to do his dirty work?"

For a second the question floors her and she has no idea what to say. It's ludicrous and even Ellison has to know that Frank wouldn't waste his time worrying about what some medium-level paper thinks of him. Even so, all she can do is stammer out a few garbled words about how this is her own personal issue which has nothing to do with Frank and give Ellison an exasperated look. And there's something on his face that tells her she's fallen into a trap, that even in his anger he's manipulated the situation so he can get something out of it and she has no idea what it is that she's just given up.

But apparently he files that away for later and carries on.

"The fact is Karen that I have been really patient with you. I put up with a lot of your crap and I give you opportunities that I wouldn't give to anyone else. You sneer at this book deal but do you have any idea how big it could be? Today it's Daredevil, tomorrow it's that guy who's bulletproof or that little detective round the corner. And then we move into the big leagues. Imagine if we could get an exclusive with Tony Stark? Just imagine…"

There's a moment he almost sounds wistful and she hates that they're conflating these arguments now, that Frank Castle and her career prospects seem to have become one and the same thing. But then Ellison seemingly collects himself along with his righteous indignation, and starts all over again.

"There are twenty other journalists sitting outside that would jump at the book deal I've offered-"

"Ask one of them then."

He gives her a sour look.

"You know full well none of them have the contacts you do, that Daredevil would never speak to any one of them. But all that aside, I've let you run with this Smirnov obsession, I've let you paint Frank Castle as a sweet and cuddly pussycat that only uses his claws when he has to. I give you a hell of a lot of leeway and all I ask is that you don't tell me how to run my damn paper. I get enough of that shit from the top, I don't need it to come from underneath too."

He makes sense and she wishes he didn't. Regardless she can't just let it drop.

"I just thought we wanted to be something better, that we could be the paper that doesn't need to rely on cheap tricks and sensationalism to be read, that we could have more integrity than that."

And that's when she realises she's overstepped the mark. Ellison is a lot of things: stubborn, acerbic, petulant. But he's also proud and she's just taken a knife to that.

"Integrity?" his voice wavers and she can hear him trying to bite back the anger and failing miserably. And she knows whatever is coming next isn't going to be something she likes. It probably won't be something he likes either. But he works with words and he's been doing it a hell of a lot longer than she has and he knows how to hurt with them.

"You want to lecture me about integrity? You really want to do that? Because the only reason we are having this conversation about a few square inches of column space has fuck all to do with integrity and everything to do with that goddamn lady boner you've been nursing for Frank Castle since the day you decided being shot at by a psychopath got you hot."

He spits out the last word like it tastes bad in his mouth, like he's been chewing on it too long and suddenly realises he doesn't like it at all and wishes he'd never started. But it's too late and she can see by the look on his face that he knows it. He crossed a line and she's not sure there's a way back.

For a good few moments he just blinks at her, chest heaving and belly straining against those ill-fitting pants, which make him look awkward and bigger than he is. She stares back. Again it's amateur hour and she doesn't scare easily. Not when her last argument involved a man who has killed people by the dozen and who could have broken her in half if he felt so inclined. And she won't back down, she won't give him the satisfaction of letting him see he's got to her, even though he has.

And _God_ , he really has.

It seems like it's hours before he speaks and, in that time, even the storm outside has decided to stop and wait it out until it's safe to breathe again.

"Karen, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," his voice is soft and he sounds a little shocked. "That was … I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

She doesn't say anything, just watches him from behind her desk. He glances out of the window, takes a breath, looks a little bewildered.

"Look," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Why don't you take the afternoon? We can talk about this on Monday when you're really better and my settings have been changed from insufferable dick to just insufferable."

"Is that what we do now Mitchell?" she asks. "The minute I say something you don't like you send me home? What is that? Your idea of a reset?"

"Well maybe I could use a reset right now," he says. "I'm sorry, that was terrible of me and I get that somewhere in all of this you do actually care about the integrity of this paper. I just don't think either you or I are ready to talk about that yet, and we're not going to get anywhere this afternoon."

She looks at him for a long time, eyes hard and lips pursed and she realises that while he's not exactly countering her and staring back, he's left it up to her to do whatever she wants. He's genuinely sorry. He's also genuinely right. Crude but right. This _is_ more about Frank Castle and less about integrity even if they do dovetail together quite nicely.

She stands, closes her laptop, tries to ignore the taut silence and how loud it is in her ears as she grabs her purse.

"Page," he says as she gets to her door. "You need to work on your game face. Not only are you a crappy liar, you can't keep secrets for shit."

His voice is firm but not unkind and she turns to look at him, cocks her head, waits for his explanation.

"You just told me Frank Castle is still alive and that you know where he is," he leans back on her desk, tugs at his shirt. "I suspected it, but you just confirmed it. Didn't even take much."

She doesn't have anything to say to that so she just gives him a hard look before turning on her heel and leaving, letting her office door slam behind her and paying no attention to Joe's curious looks as she punches the number for the cab company into her phone and heads for the lifts.

xxx

She doesn't cry and that's a win. After all, one of her titles isn't "Holder Back of Tears Under Extreme Duress" for nothing. But jokes aside, she doesn't feel the need to cry over Ellison. She's had what she could easily describe as two of the toughest years of her life, give or take. Between being kidnapped twice, killing a man, being taken hostage, being shot at by a vigilante and then being saved by that same vigilante when someone else shot at her and then falling in love with said vigilante, she's learnt that there are more important things to waste tears on than a crotchety old boss and their penchant for making people feel three feet tall. All in all it's not worth it.

So no, sitting in the back of the cab heading towards the final resting place of Maria Castle and her children for the second time in as many days, she doesn't cry. But that doesn't mean that this doesn't sadden her, leave an uncomfortable feeling in her belly. Because despite his sharp tongue and his overall abrasiveness, Ellison has indeed been as good to her as he says he has. He respects her and she him, and he's served as a mentor to her over the past year and she doesn't want to lose that. Especially not for something that is - she has to admit - as inconsequential as this. Something Frank himself probably wouldn't give a fuck about. He's been given far worse treatment elsewhere, so much so that she doesn't think he bothers to follow the news on himself anymore.

Even so, she's hurt and angry but mainly with herself for giving Ellison what he wanted regarding the general state of Frank Castle's existence ... and then the pesky matter of him being at least somewhat right about the so-called "lady boner". Because yes, that's part of it and she's given up trying to deny that she's wanted Frank since she imagined how he might have had her at the cabin.

But that's not all. Frustration and desire aside, Frank Castle has managed to carve himself a place in her heart. And, for the first time in her entire life, it feels like there's someone in the world who _gets_ her, who understands. This isn't a matter of taking her on and dealing with her baggage too. This is about finding a person who wants to know all of her, who will love her not despite the bad parts but because of them.

She closes her eyes and doesn't flinch when the image of James Wesley's twitching corpse appears in her head. It's part of her now. Part of this new Karen Page and that's okay. Not everything about her has to be pure and perfect. She can have some ugliness too, some darkness. She has as much right to it as the next person.

"You need me to wait?" The cabbie asks as he draws to a stop next to her car. He's grizzly and old but his eyes are bright and friendly and she can't help but give him a tight-lipped smile.

She glances out the window. There's a forklift parked at the side of the road and she can see two men fixing the broken street light. They're arguing and she imagines it's got something to do with the weather even though the rain seems to have let up slightly for now. But then again the sky is grey and she can see some darker clouds approaching from the east. It's going to storm again and she's not upset about that. Hell's Kitchen needed to be clean. She needed it. And, more than all of them, Frank needed it.

She wonders what he's doing, if he's asleep or if he's pacing her apartment like a restless animal. She hopes it's the former although she strongly suspects the latter.

"No, thank you," she says, grabbing her purse, groping for her wallet which somehow always ends up lost at the bottom.

"Nasty day to visit a graveyard," the cabbie says inclining his head towards the open gate and a few people under black umbrellas heading towards their cars.

"I'm not staying."

He grins. "Yeah, we're all going to spend enough time in there anyway one day. No use jumping the gun."

She nods as she hands him some money and he tells her to have a good day, to call if she does need a lift home. And then she's out of the car and he's gone and it's just her and a few mourners standing outside the gates.

And suddenly she has to go in. She _has_ to. It wasn't the plan. The plan was to come here, get her car and then go home. Tell Frank she's got the rest of the afternoon off and they can do whatever they want with it. And she knows that means they'd probably order take-out and maybe even a bottle of wine now that he's feeling better. And then they'd talk or they wouldn't and maybe watch something bad on TV. He'd hold her hand and they'd touch one another in ways they shouldn't and pull back at the last second and wait until the time is right. Because she knows it'll only happen then. And she knows they'll both know when that is.

But now she's not doing that. Now she's walking through the gates and along the neat little cobblestone paths, the rose bushes twitching under the weight of the drizzle and the cold wind making them sway. The ground is slippery and she walks slowly, hugging herself as she does. She's not going to stay long. She thinks almost everything that needed to happen here already has, that there isn't much more Maria could give her and truthfully, not much more that she wants either. She needs to figure out Frank Castle on her own, she doesn't want anything to change that, to hasten the process. It needs to be earned and she is earning it. She _has_.

There's a groundsman in a yellow raincoat tending to the plants and she wonders at his commitment to be out here in the cold wind when it's a task that could easily wait for tomorrow. But he doesn't seem to mind and she catches him whistling a little tune, which she almost recognises but can't quite remember.

It'll come to her though. It's just a matter of time.

She doesn't lose her way, although she suspects that if she needed it, she'd find a strong enough cellphone signal to pull up a map now. On Wednesday she had to find him herself, it was the only way. But today isn't a trial. Today is different. Easier.

The graves look different in the daylight, weak and dim though it may be. They seem smaller somehow, less imposing. They aren't tinged silver, they don't shine or sparkle. The clouds make them look a flat slate grey ... except for the angel. If anything she looks even more ethereal, otherworldly, the marble gleaming like ivory despite the lack of sun. Her face is still beautiful and her wings delicate, outstretched like a guardian over her children. _His_ children.

And Karen has to draw a breath, let it out slow and easy and then choke back a sob. This place is sacred but it's also a place of great suffering, of misery. She can still see the indent in the mud of where they sat under the wings, where she held him and he told her he hated and loved her; told her to leave and asked her to stay and the warring parts of himself came together to create something new. Something neither of them know yet.

 _It's going to be okay,_ she tells herself, _it has to be_. She's strong, she can handle this. It doesn't have to hurt and she knows he doesn't want it to either. But she also knows that just because something doesn't have to be hard, doesn't mean it won't be.

She looks at the angel's face again and somehow it seems sadder than before, the light rain collecting in the corners of her eyes and dripping down like tears.

 _I'll look after him,_ she thinks, _I promise I will. I'll do everything I can to keep him safe._

She doesn't know why she feels the need to do this again, to remake this promise. Maybe because on Wednesday it felt like she was making it to Maria, but now she has to make it to herself and Maria is there just to bear witness.

The wind howls and she wraps her arms around herself, shivers. She's not dressed for this, not at all; simple grey pencil skirt that breaks just below her scabbed knees, scoop neck black top and a matching cardigan. But she's not going to be long. She wants to get home to him. She wants to be with him and feel his warmth and his strength. His love.

Because that's what it is. Love. No use pretending otherwise.

She glances at the two small crosses on either side of the statue - Lisa to the left, Frank Jr to the right. Their graves are empty, no flowers, no toys and she wonders if they have anyone visiting here. Grandparents, uncles and aunts. Frank hasn't mentioned family other than Maria so she doesn't know if they are alive or estranged, or if, right now, they just think he's dead. No matter though, Frank has enough love for all of them. They don't need anything else.

Either way she touches them both, bows her head. She's not religious and she doesn't have words to say other than she's sorry and she wishes the world wasn't a place where somehow she's here and she sleeps with their father and there's nothing wrong with either of those things. She wishes it wasn't so. But it is. And the world doesn't work in hypotheticals. There isn't a choice to be made here. There never was.

The rain is starting to come down harder again and she thinks they're in for that downpour soon. Hell's Kitchen has a lot of sins, and the heavens are going to need to work hard to finish washing the stains away. And she really should get going before it sets in but this is important somehow. Frank would tell her she was being stupid, standing out here in the middle of a graveyard in front of the tombstones of three people she never met. And maybe she is being stupid but it feels right. It's such a big part of who and what he is and she thinks that everything she knows about him, all the big things - his rage, his pain, his capacity for both the cruellest violence and fiercest love, his gentleness - come from here. This is the source, his origin story, and if there's something she knows, it's that origin stories are always painful, they're always dark and his might be the darkest yet.

She catches herself blinking back tears. She wants to go to him now, go to him and put her arms around him and hold him as tight as he holds her; listen to all the different ways he says he loves her and when that's enough, all the ways he shows her too.

 _Don't you know?_

 _I know._

 _IknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknow._

She turns to leave but as she does a weak ray of sunlight cuts briefly through the clouds and she sees something small and shiny glinting in the mud in front of Maria's grave. She doesn't have to wonder - she knows what it is. Remembers how she held him to her breast and he grabbed at it over and over again like a small child, until it broke off in his hand and he looked at her like he had no idea why. And then she was going to ask him for it but she didn't because they were getting into the shower and he was holding onto her like she was the only thing left in the world he was allowed to hold onto. And nothing was more important than that.

But here it is and it's twinkling at her like it knows something, like it's just dying for her to ask and she closes her eyes, pushes the thoughts away.

She can't keep thinking like this. She _can't_. If she does she's really going to need a list of Reasons Why Karen Page Is Off Her Head.

And it would be full in no time at all.

Regardless she ducks under the statue and grabs at the chain, twisting her hand so the pendant doesn't fall back into the mud. The black rose is dirty but she wipes it off with some tissues from her purse and holds it out in front of her, watching as it spins lazily in the wind. It's really pretty and only a few days ago, she would have been heartbroken over the thought of losing it. Not because it was expensive, not because it has any great significant sentimental value but because it was hers and it was beautiful and something a little excessive that she didn't need a reason to keep. Today though it feels like different. Not lesser - not at all - just like it has a different purpose. No longer just something sparkly that she - crowlike - would steal and hide in her nest with all her other useless treasures. Because it isn't useless. It means something. It means more than before.

She pulls the broken pieces of chain together and ties them in a sturdy double knot and moves to drape it through the angel's outstretched fingers. It's not perfect but it'll do

"It's a damn shame you know," the voice comes from behind her and she turns to see the groundsman standing there, the hood of his raincoat pushed back to his shoulders and his white hair sticking out like candyfloss under his cap. He's old, well into his seventies and she thinks that with a beard and a moustache he might look just like Santa Claus.

"It's a tragedy when the Lord takes them so young. I know it's not for us to wonder but sometimes you have to. Sometimes it seems wrong not to."

She nods and follows his gaze to the angel's face again, the gentle rainwater tears running down her cheeks.

"Did you know them?" he asks and she says no, adds something innocuous about being a friend of someone who did.

"Mother and two children… Their father went off the rails after," he carries on and part of her wonders if he's talking to himself more than to her, if he's had so many thoughts about these three graves in the two years they've been here and now he sees her presence as an opportunity to voice them. "He lost himself, killed people."

"The Punisher," she says softly and he ducks his head but doesn't look at her.

"Guess if you live anywhere near Hell's Kitchen then you know the story. Can't say I blame him. Others do, but when the world takes everything away from you, you gotta find some way to take it back. I don't think we're made to deal with that kind of loss. I don't think the good Lord intends for us to."

She's quiet for a few minutes and then he tips his hat to her. "Have a good day ma'am. Graveyard's gonna close in a couple of minutes."

"I know," she says. "I just wanted to leave this."

She gestures at the necklace hanging between the angel's fingers and the old man sighs.

"Ma'am that'll be stolen before the day is done. I hate to say it but kids come in here at night and do heaven knows what on these grounds. Happened again just this week. Yesterday morning I arrived to see the side gate busted open. Luckily whoever that was didn't leave any mess behind but that's not always the case."

She finds she doesn't feel as guilty as she should. "I still want to leave it though."

He huffs and she can see he's thinking she's crazy and that the dead don't appreciate gifts or trinkets. But by his own words he didn't see what happened to the living in this very spot two nights ago. He didn't see how they fought back the darkness and found a way to keep going with each other. He thinks she wants to leave a gift for the dead but he can't see that it's actually a promise for those still alive.

"If I get my stepladder, you can hang it around her neck," he says. "It will get stolen eventually but it'll be harder to get to and less noticeable."

She smiles. "Yeah sure, that sounds great."

So he fetches the ladder and he holds it steady while she climbs the three steps to the top in her heels and fixes the rose over the angel's head, adjusts it so that it hangs between her breasts before moving back down to the ground.

She thanks the old man and he smiles at her.

"You should get on home ma'am," he says. "There's another storm coming."

As if to punctuate his words thunder rumbles in the distance and fat drops of rain fall heavily against her skin, seeping through her cardigan and into her blouse.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm going. I just needed to do this."

He stares at her for a few long seconds and then he grins. He's not as toothy as she expected and there's a warmth to him she hasn't seen in anyone in a while.

"It's all good and well caring for the dead," he says cheerfully as he moves the stepladder back to the rose bushes. "But you have to care for yourself too."

He's right, even if his words have a slightly ominous edge to them. She says goodbye and he waves to her as she heads down the path towards the gate.

She doesn't look back.

xxx

Frank isn't in bed when she arrives. Instead it's neatly made and Pickle is reclining in the middle of the pillows. She gives Karen a disinterested look and rolls onto her back, stretches.

He's in the kitchen, she can hear him messing with the coffee machine and she shakes her head. She wonders exactly how angry Claire would be if she knew even half the amount he consumes daily. But the man survived a bullet to the brain and multiple beatings, Karen doesn't think that he's going to be foiled with an excess of caffeine … or maybe he will. And the writer in her appreciates the delicious irony in that, if not the actual subject matter itself.

She says his name and isn't surprised when her voice sounds husky and low, barely more than a whisper. But he hears her and the noise from the kitchen stops and a second later he's out in the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt and looking at her like she's pretty much the answer to every question he's asked in the last two years.

He's smiling too and it's genuine and infectious and he looks so damn proud of himself and _godfuckingdamnit_ she just adores him and she just can't help it or make any excuses. She doesn't want to.

But then he narrows his eyes, cocks his head and he's looking at her like he sees everything.

"You okay?" he asks.

It's not a loaded question but it feels like it should be. With the exception of Ellison it hasn't truly been a horrible day but that weighs heavily on her mind. And then there's the graveyard and Maria and the fact that she's keeping a criminal in her apartment. It's exhausting. This whole week has been exhausting since the second she stepped out of her office and walked with Ellison to Josie's. So much has happened, so much is different and for a second she's a little overwhelmed and she feels the threat of tears. But she holds them back. There's no reason for them.

She swallows.

"Yeah, just a long day is all."

She can see he doesn't really believe her and the concerned look on his face stays in place.

"What are you doing in there?" she asks.

He grins again and takes her hand, pulls her into the kitchen. It looks the same as before, silly bright curtains and tiles, more like something out of a 1970s sitcom than a modern no-frills working woman's home.

And then she sees the white cardboard box on the counter, some embossed writing on the top that she can't make out.

She clears her throat, looks at him.

"Coulda sworn I told you to rest when I left this morning."

It comes out wrong, not nearly as stern as she hoped, but he's still smiling like a kid in a candy store and again it hits her again how beautiful he is. In every way. Even the bad parts.

He may not be pretty like a picture. He's not Matt with his boyish good looks and easy charm, but there's something in those black eyes and that hard jaw, the way his mouth moves, that makes her just want to look at him forever. Makes her want to study his face and the lines of it, his body too; the taut muscles and the way they move under his skin, the bruises and the scars that she can't hurt even if she wanted to.

"Did you?" he teases. "Can't say I remember that."

"No, I'm pretty sure I did."

He shrugs. "Sue me. Ain't a judge in the world that'll side with me over you anyway."

"Yeah and remember I've got Foggy on speed dial if I need a lawyer."

"Fuck," he says. "Does that mean I get Murdock? We tried that once, it didn't work out too well."

It's her turn to shrug now. "You do the crime, you do the time."

And somehow it's easy to joke about this even though it shouldn't be. Jail time. Trials. Matt. All the tough stuff, all the issues - and none of them seem all that important right now.

Still, she doesn't want to push it too hard so she squeezes his fingers and inclines her head to the box.

"What is this Frank?"

The truth is she thinks she already knows. Because she knows him. And she knows that as vicious and cruel as he is, he's equally sweet and kind - it just _has_ to work that way with him. Apparently the universe is more insistent than ever about those checks and balances and the thought leaves a feeling of lingering dread in her bones and she's not sure why.

But she doesn't worry on it too long because he's talking again and he sounds like something that could be approaching happy.

"You said all you wanted to do was eat a cake by yourself and damn the consequences," he says. "Here it is. Better late than never."

"Chocolate?"

"And ginger. With gingersnap frosting."

And it's like someone sticks their hands inside her ribcage and wraps their fingers around her heart; her own little monster trying to fight it's way out of her chest.

For a second she doesn't know what to say so she turns and does what she's been waiting the whole day to do: wraps her arms around his waist and rests her cheek on his shoulder, takes a deep breath of him as he tugs her close, weaves his fingers into her hair and cups the back of her head; presses his mouth to her shoulder.

She's not really sure how it happens but it feels like part of her fades. The over-thinking, over-analysing part that makes lists and calls herself names, the part that makes her anxious and shaky even when she shouldn't be. It's not that it's gone. She's not sure it ever will truly be _gone_ but it's resting. Because she doesn't need it around him. He's shown her that.

He asks again if she's alright and she nods against his shirt.

She's fine, she really is. Tired and overwhelmed and a little older than she was when all this started but she's fine.

All the same she pulls him closer, holds him tighter. And she's not sure how long they do that for nor does she much care. He's warm and strong and exactly what she needs and she's spent long enough holding him up. And he knows it too.

Eventually his hands drop to her waist and he pulls away slightly, eyes dark and pupils so blown that she almost feels dizzy.

"You sit," he says gently, jerking his chin in the direction of the couch. "I'll bring it to you."

And she can't help it - can't stop herself before she does it - she turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth. It's quick and it's chaste, and it shouldn't make her breathless, leave her belly fluttering and turn the blood in her veins thick and hot. But it does all these things. And suddenly she feels unsteady on her legs, like the weight of the day has been bearing down on her too long and his hands on her are the only thing keeping her standing. Like that tiny gentle kiss was all she had left and it's drained her of everything.

It shouldn't. Shouldn't because truthfully it's nothing. Nothing, but the gentle brush of her lips on his skin, the subtle taste and smell of him filling her up. Nothing, even though it lingers a moment too long and his fingers twitch on her hips and he sucks in a deep breath. Nothing, even though for the first time she feels shy to look him in the eye.

Nothing, even though it feels like everything.

Because somehow she can exercise the self control of a fucking saint when he's semi-naked and pressed, hard and pulsing against her back. She can find it in herself to think about his stitches and general mental state when he has his hands under her clothes or when they're both in their underwear in a shower. But apparently the thought behind a chocolate cake with ginger frosting for a belated birthday is enough to push her over the edge and forget all that.

She guesses her standards might not be that high. Or maybe they are. Birthday cake, after all, is important business.

She swallows heavily, takes the smallest step backwards and his eyes snap to her face. His brow is furrowed and he's staring at her like he did that night in the diner, when he was sweet and focused and before he shot holes in the world and in her heart.

For a long moment he does nothing. And then his gaze rakes over her and if her kiss was chaste and innocent, then the look in his eyes is anything but. It's hard and deep and wonderfully unsettling and she feels that magma her blood has become pounding between her legs, clogging her heart and making it hard to think or breathe.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, a rumble that seems to start in his gut, work its way through his belly and lungs and choke him. And then he's using one hand to pull her closer, press her hips to his and he's lifting the other to her face, sliding his fingers between her hair and her neck thumb sweeping across her lips and then her cheek.

She doesn't look away, but it's hard. Because if up until now he's been able to cultivate that glare that is both lewd and somehow not, the ability has been lost and she doubts he'll get it back. There's literally nothing innocent in his eyes, the way they're flickering over her face, nothing that isn't white-hot lust that wants to devour her from the inside out and outside in.

There's something wonderfully frightening in it, something that sets her on edge and twists wickedly around her spine; something that takes her back to the cabin and all the fantasies she's had about the different ways he might have her and her him.

She knows they can't wait much longer, that they don't want to.

When he says her name his voice is thick and low and he has to clear his throat, swallow hard before he says it again.

"Go," he whispers and it seems to take immense effort for him to say it. "Sit."

And all she can do is nod and force herself to step back, to give up the warmth of him, take a deep breath and turn away; collect herself.

This is a problem. This is a huge fucking ridiculous problem that they've seemingly created for reasons that now escape her, reasons that seem inconsequential even if she knows they're not.

He _needs_ to rest. He _needs_ to heal. It'll happen when the time is right. Not that she thinks there could be a wrong time for it to happen. Not that that seems remotely possible.

In the bedroom she gives Pickle a scratch behind the ears and heads to the couch, throws herself against the cushions and kicks off her shoes, pulls her legs up underneath her. Her clothes are still damp but she doesn't have the energy to change them just yet.

 _Do your worst pneumonia. Karen Page fucking dares you._

He brings their coffee - he's acquainted himself with the milk frother specifically to make it how she likes it - and puts a slice of cake on the side table, sits down next to her, hands folded between his legs.

"None for you?" she asks.

"Said you wanted to eat it all by yourself,"

"Changed my mind," she takes a sip of coffee. "Don't need to hide in the broom closet anymore. Happy to share."

He gives her a half smile. "Maybe later."

She ducks her head. There's a whole lot of laters going on right now and she finds she's fine with that. Not everything has to be a rush, not everything has to be urgent.

She picks up the cake, carves off a forkful of it and shoves it in her mouth, smears icing on her fingers. It's fresh and rich and probably better than anything she could have found in Hell's Kitchen. And she wonders where he got it from, how he knew which bakery would have it. And then she remembers that he's who he is and cakes and birthday parties were things he likely just did before he went off to war. The soldier and The Punisher always comes second to the husband and the father. Even now.

 _Especially_ now.

"Where'd you go?" he asks, voice low and thick. "When you were in your broom closet spaceship?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. Away. Anywhere else."

He frowns at that. She knew he would. They both know there are things she hasn't told him. Terrible things. Dark secrets.

But he doesn't push. He never does.

"What about now?"

She shakes her head, takes another bite of the cake.

"Now there's nowhere I want to fly away to."

She wonders briefly if the weight of that statement is too much, if it's too raw and real for him. For them. But then he grins.

"Good, because I'm pretty sure those FBI fuckers have me on a no-fly list anyway."

She snorts. "Federal law doesn't apply on my spaceship, so you can still fly with me."

"Nah, your spaceship is just a broom closet powered on gingersnaps. I need something a little more advanced than that."

She laughs and pokes him with her toe and he grabs her ankle, twists his fingers around it and pulls her feet into his lap, covers them with his hands.

For a while neither of them say anything. She eats her cake and he sips his coffee and they listen to the sound of the rain outside, Pickle's purring inside. And she wishes it could always be like this. Gentle, relaxed, quiet. No bullets and exploding gunfire. No sirens or screaming. No children lying dead in pools of their own blood. No husbands crying for their wives. No frightened young women having to make terrible choices that either make them murderers or liars.

And no Punisher in her bed.

The thought leaves her cold. Because in her heart she knows that's the balance, the final debt. The steep price tag on that good and ordinary life. And she doesn't want to pay it even though she knows she would. That she would _have_ to.

But she also knows that none of that matters because all the willingness in the world won't change the past. They need to look forward now, see what's still left and what they can do with it.

 _Don't you know?_

His hands are gentle on her calves, absently kneading at her flesh as he works his way up to her knees and then light and almost ticklish as he runs his fingertips back down to her ankles and starts again. He doesn't say anything when she trembles, when her skin prickles. She thinks they've both given up on trying to hide and ignore these things. It is what it is. It was never going to be anything else.

"I need to go away next week," his voice is steady and firm but she knows him well enough to detect the tremble, the hint of reluctance and disappointment in it.

He lets her digest that for a while. Lets it settle and he's lost in thought too, almost like he's pulling apart the very concept of leaving her, and he's unsure of whether it has a place in the world.

And she doesn't think it does, because the idea of him going away so soon after she saved him and then saved him again sits like a hard, ugly stone in her belly. The thought of coming home to an empty apartment, of waking up to find herself alone leaves her feeling cold and sad, longing for something she hasn't even lost yet. Maybe for something she's never really had.

She swallows hard and looks at his hands against her skin, how they're big and strong and how he's still massaging her and hasn't missed a beat while he spoke. And suddenly that throbbing between her thighs is back and she has to shift her ass on the couch just to stand it.

He doesn't seem to notice though. Or, if he does, he pays no attention.

"It won't be for long," he says. "It ain't…"

He cuts himself off and she wonders what he was going to say. _Work? Business? Murder? Punishing?_ She thinks they're probably all the same.

"I need to take Luna to Jersey," he says and with the way he grits the words out it sounds like this might have been more difficult to verbalise than anything else. "I called the shelter today and they've kept a place for her, but I want to take her up myself, check it out first."

She's surprised by how hard that hits her. She knew that it was going to happen - he told her as much the night they danced on the roof and the sky was on fire above them. And yet, somewhere in that place where he romances her, where he remembers birthdays and anniversaries and they go on dates and he courts her in that way that a man courts a woman, Luna was always there. She laid at their feet while they watched TV. They walked her in the park and held hands and threw balls for her that she lost interest in after the second time. She wore a Santa hat at Christmas and Pickle eventually warmed up to her and they slept together in a big dog bed.

And yeah, it was all fantasy. It was all silly, because that's never going to happen. They're never going to have playdates in the park or walk her like a normal couple do. That's all part of that ordinary life with ordinary husbands and ordinary children. And looking at them now and where they are, Karen knows they're nothing but ordinary. Neither of them. And that's okay.

Still hurts though. The idea that Luna won't be part of their lives anymore. And she realises that however she feels, what Frank must be feeling is a hundred times worse. She's seen Luna twice whereas Frank's lived with her and cared for her for the past six months. He's fed her and washed her, taken her to the vet and bought her things. He's become Luna's world and Karen suspects the opposite is true as well.

"Nelson has been great with everything but she can't just be passed around like this anymore. She's old and she needs…" he stops and she puts her cake down, leans forward and touches his shoulder. "She needs a home."

He says it like it's something he understands, something fundamental. And he's right. Luna does need a home and it isn't fair.

He lifts a hand from her shins and squeezes her fingers gently before continuing to rub her legs. He's good at this, even when he's not thinking about it and just doing it by instinct.

"I just want to check the place out first," he says. "I know it's some kind of farm that's partly a sanctuary and partly some kind of weekend getaway destination. And I know Kat - that's the owner - and she's good, but I don't just wanna dump Luna there without seeing it first."

"It's okay Frank. I get it."

"Yeah," he runs a hand down her leg and circles her ankle with his thumb and forefinger. "I know you do."

"I've got to call Foggy a bit later. I'll ask him to bring her round on Monday? Tuesday?"

He gives no indication he's heard her even though she knows he has. And his fingers dig sharply into the meat of her calves so that she gasps before he starts his gentle rubbing again.

"I'll be back soon," he tells her. "It'll only be a few days."

And she hears what he's saying underneath that, a promise that this isn't him disappearing again, that he won't leave her wondering where he is for months. That even if Luna doesn't have a home, he _does_ and he's coming back to it. To her.

For a wild moment she has the most insane, irrational hope that maybe, just maybe somehow, this could all work out. That by some miracle, the universe will twist and turn on itself and find a way to give them a happy ending; that there's something she hasn't thought of, some plan she hasn't made and everything is going to be okay. She knows it's stupid and she needs to get her head out of the clouds, confine it to her list of Things That Don't Happen, but she can't help it and for a second she lets herself believe it. Lets herself live in it.

And it's wonderful and frightening and exciting and everything that he is. And then it's gone. Shut off like a switch, her brain protecting itself and pulling her back to reality.

She closes her eyes briefly, lets the feelings ebb and when she looks at him again he's still focused on her legs and her skin and seemingly the moment passed him by. As much as she hates to admit it that's probably for the best too.

"Claire's gonna give you a hard time," she says shakily, and his fingertips slide up the back of her leg and rest behind her knee.

He snorts. "What else is news? Claire's day isn't complete until she's annihilated me at least once."

Karen laughs and his hand moves infinitesimally higher to her thigh, fingers drawing small circles into flesh that make her shiver.

"Luna's a good dog. I need to do right by her," he bites his lip. "She got me through some shit. I'm gonna miss the fuck out of her."

And suddenly she remembers what she did when she took Luna to Foggy and she wants to curse herself for leaving it for so long. For forgetting. And sure, it's been a long week and things weren't their best from the time she dropped Luna off until yesterday morning when he seemingly started to come to terms with the shambles that his life is. But it doesn't feel like an excuse.

She pulls her legs out of his lap, leaving his one hand lingering in midair and he looks at her confused and slightly concerned. But she grabs her phone out of her purse and swipes to the picture gallery, pulls up the picture of Luna sitting in front of Foggy's front door, goofy drooly grin on her face, head cocked to the side.

"Here," she says, handing him her phone. "I meant to show you this… before, but I forgot."

There's a moment he seems genuinely overcome, eyes crinkling in the corners and some rapid blinking and then he smiles sadly.

"Face only a mother could love," he says and she knows he's lying through his teeth, knows that Luna's one of the most important things in his life and he thinks she's beautiful.

She reaches for her plate while he looks at her phone.

"She deserves a good place and good people," his voice is low and has an edge to it.

"She has all those things Frank."

He nods without looking at her and puts her phone down between them.

"Thanks," he slides a hand on her knee over the scab. "Thanks for doing that for me. Thanks for everything you've done for me."

She knows that to tell him it was nothing or it doesn't matter would be insulting and also a lie. And they don't lie. They _don't_.

So she doesn't say anything. It's been hard and it hasn't always been pleasant but she wouldn't have it any other way, wouldn't change it.

But now she doesn't want to lose him to his dark thoughts, to his melancholy, so she pokes his with her foot again.

"Cake?" she asks, holding up her plate and he nods so she hands him a forkful and he chews it thoughtfully.

"It's good," he says as if it surprises him that he likes it.

"Yeah," she says. "Not everything has to be dark and bitter. You can love yourself occasionally."

He gives her a sly look and takes her hand, tugs it towards him and presses a kiss to her knuckles. And then in a move she hadn't anticipated he pulls the tips of her fingers into his mouth and runs his tongue over them, licking the stickiness of the icing off.

And he's looking at her with those heavy black eyes again and she wonders how she ever withstood it before. It's not like she didn't notice the set of his jaw and the curve of his lips during those hours she spent with him at the hospital or the prison. Not that she didn't see the corded muscle of his arms and the fierce strength in his hands while he sat next to her in the courtroom. Not that she missed how piercing his eyes were the night of the diner nor the night he died again in the forest. It was always there, sinking into her bones, her blood; him fitting himself neatly into the little empty places in her heart.

He says she makes him weak, but the truth is she thinks what they do to each other can't be explained away by words as simple and "weakness" or "strength". Because yes, she does feel weak around him, she does feel her resistance crumbling, but she also feels like she can do anything, like she's safe. And there's no telling what you can do when you know someone's got your back.

And she _is_ being strong now. Because somehow, even though his mouth is hot and wet, she's resisting the urge to push her fingers further inside, resisting the urge to replace them with her tongue.

Resisting the urge to climb him like a fucking tree.

That's got to be strength. It has to.

And when his teeth drag across her skin she even finds it in herself to pull away. But it's hard and her mind is spiralling out of control and all she can think about is the cabin and the roof and the way he touched yesterday, his mouth on her throat, hand almost at her breast.

She wants to ask him. Ask him where his mind goes when he thinks of her that way. It's not the cabin, of that she's sure - the cabin is her own personal cross to bear - but maybe the roof, maybe the shower. Definitely yesterday in her bed.

Definitely.

She looks up at him, wonders if she might see the answer on his face but she doesn't.

"I know," he says. "I know.".

And then maybe because she can't trust herself to outstare him anymore, maybe because she can't trust herself to keep her ass on the couch and not jump into his lap, or maybe just because she can't deal with the heaviness of the tension in the room anymore, she bumps his shoulder playfully with her own. And he doesn't miss a beat and bumps back, snorts at her.

And then it's light-hearted again. This is the Frank who was sings _Shining Star_ and who was going to shoot ants on the roof. The one that bought her coffee nearly every morning and yes, the one who's going to fly away with her in her spaceship.

And they're going to be okay. They can do better than survive. They can make it work, even if she doesn't know how just yet.

A promise in a graveyard in the dead of night, a promise made with blood and tears. Another made today under the cloudy sky. No tears this time, only rain.

It was nothing. It was everything.

"You scare the fuck out of me Karen Page," he says. It's not heavy or solemn, just matter of fact and maybe a little resigned.

"Thought you were the big bad Punisher," she answers. "I'm gonna start spreading rumours that you aren't nearly as scary as they say."

He rolls his eyes, pulls her feet back into his lap.

"Eat your cake," he says sternly but his smile belies his tone. "You know that spaceship ain't gonna go do much without the proper prep."

"You have no idea how high-tech my spaceship is," she tells him.

"Well you're just gonna have to show me around one of these days."

And she laughs, and outside thunder rumbles long and loud and the rain beats hard against the windows until they shake. But inside it's warm and it's safe and he's here and sometimes birthday wishes do come true.

 _Sometimes_.


	10. I'll rise from the dead for you

So I have been looking forward to writing certain events in this chapter for a while now, even though Frank continues to blindside me and make things happen on his terms.

I hope you all enjoy it too.

Just a note, that we are getting to a very tricky part now so I am hoping I won't fuck up and if I do that you'll forgive me.

Not much more to say really other than thanks to everyone who has been sending their support. I really appreciate every review, kudos, and screamy message I get regarding this fic. It's become very close to my heart in some strange ways.

Song title is from Swoon (Reprise) by The Mission.

* * *

Monday comes too fast for her.

Too fast for Foggy as well judging by the look on his face as he pulls up outside her building and helps Luna out of the backseat of his car.

He's sad. Subdued. And even from where she's standing across the road under one of the ground-floor awnings, she can see the red rims around his eyes; the strangely pained expression on his face as he rubs Luna's ears and clips a purple lead onto her collar.

It's cold and grey out. Misty. And there's still a miserable drizzle in the air and she wonders what the hell they're doing outside at this hour when they could all still be snuggled up under their respective covers in one way or another. But Frank wanted to get an early start and when Claire grudgingly said that he might be able to be a little more active in a week or two he took that to mean he could drive to Jersey, Monday morning first thing.

So he is.

He's standing next to her, absently rubbing circles into the small of her back. And she's leaning into him so that she can feel his breath against her neck; the heat of his skin blooming through her clothes and teasing her own chilled flesh like a lover.

It's been like this the whole weekend. Slow, gentle. Easy. Sometimes not so easy. They didn't talk a lot after Friday. There wasn't much need. They read. They touched. They watched some bad TV until Frank declared that he was becoming stupider by the second and turned it off. She did some work and Claire came round to check on him and dish out some stern advice ... which was all a little weird because Frank took it upon himself to serve them all coffee and cake which made them seem more like an old married couple than ever. And it didn't go unnoticed.

But that aside, things were okay. Quiet. Confined. The difficult part came when they went to sleep, the way his hand rested on her naked hip, burning through her flesh and turning her whole body into a fiery nest of nerve endings. The way his whiskers brushed against her shoulders, lips pressed to her skin and white-hot sparks shot down her spine and settled low in her belly.

He struggled too. She knows this. She'd turn over in the night, rest her head on his bicep and wouldn't miss the way he'd shift his pelvis slightly away from her. Nor the way his fingers would twitch and he'd grapple between pulling her closer or leaving her where she was and letting the miniscule space between them turn fevered and frightening. And maybe not so frightening. Maybe more exciting and anticipatory. Maybe something closer to a kind of torture he's not wholly aware he dishes out.

She thinks it's best that he goes away for a while even though she's already missing him and his absence feels like a hole in her heart. It's been a _hell_ of a week, even if she could ignore his initial injuries and the fact that he dragged himself to her to die. Which she can't.

And that's not even where the biggest wounds lie, where the healing needs to happen. _Has_ happened. The emotional toll alone should have left them reeling. And in many ways it did. So maybe a few days apart will give them time to reassess, regroup.

Doesn't mean she likes it. Doesn't mean that at all. Doesn't mean she hasn't got used to sharing her bed with him. Her home. Her _life_. And she arches against his hand a little, moves so that his rubbing becomes harder and more focused and her legs become weaker and less steady. And it's distracting and frustrating but the last thing she wants him to do is stop.

Foggy looks very dapper in a grey three-piece suit as he makes his way across the street towards them. Being a lawyer - a real honest-to-God actual practicing lawyer - is good for him in so many ways and, not for the first time, it hits her how wasted he was at _Nelson and Murdock_ , how much better he deserved. And it's not just the name of a big firm to put on his resumé, it's the tangible things too. A good salary, a decent place to live, not having to worry about making ends meet because you've been paid in frozen chickens and not cold, hard cash.

She guesses like many things with Matt, there was an idealism attached to _Nelson and Murdock_ , an idea that somehow they could help the underdog and didn't need to worry about themselves. If they did the right thing the universe will take care of the rest. But the universe doesn't do that. Karen knows it all too well. The universe looks out for number one and nine times out of ten that's not you, no matter how good your intentions might be. And sometimes idealism _has_ to give way to pragmatism - something she's not sure Matt is ready to entertain, let alone accept.

But it doesn't matter. Not really anyway. _Nelson and Murdock'_ s doors are closed. Foggy has a real job and so does she. And Matt, well Matt must be doing all right considering he still seems to have the means to buy loaded birthday gifts and attend parties with the rich and not-so-famous. It's not really a thought worth her time.

Especially not now. Especially with the melancholy she's sure is about to unfold.

She's not sure if Luna sees or smells Frank first but suddenly she's yelping and tugging on her lead, tail wagging so hard and so fast it's turning to a blur. And then Frank is dropping down on one knee and he's grinning from ear to ear, cupping Luna's face and pressing his forehead to hers. She hears him whispering but can't make out what he's saying, can only watch as his lips move and Luna gives him slobbery kisses, her whole body shaking with excitement.

"Guess I'm chopped liver," Foggy says glancing at the lead in his hand, but there's no real hurt in his tone.

Karen looks at Frank. "Guess I am too."

"Think we should give them some space?" Foggy asks. "Their own place or something?"

She laughs and pulls him into a hug, squeezes him tight because she realises that she's never _not_ missing him; that even though their lives are insane, somehow he's always in her thoughts and she imagines the same could be said of him. And he's good. He's just so fucking _good_ in every way. There's no moral ambiguity, no grey areas, no crusades that keep her up at night and worrying.

He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and asks softly if everything is okay and she nods. Because it is. It really is.

"You look good with a dog," she says. "It suits you."

"Yeah. A little too well," he sighs as he lets her go, rubs the back of his neck. "Marci is a wreck. Honestly. I had no idea at all how attached she was going to get, or how quickly."

She tilts her head, waits for him to continue.

"She cried all night and wouldn't come with me this morning. Probably best though. Not sure how _that_ introduction would have gone." He glances at Frank who still seems oblivious to anything but Luna, even though Karen knows that's not the case.

He's quiet for a second and she tries to imagine what it would be like if Marci and Frank were to ever meet.

"Hmmm, I think Marci could take him."

Foggy huffs. "She'd probably bring him home, tell me he needs a place to stay. Next thing you know, he's got his own bed and a place on the couch and she's taking him out to meet her friends."

He trails off and for a second it seems like he'll keep his spirits up. But he doesn't and she sees some of the light go out of his eyes as he remembers why he's here.

"Cry when he gets a place of his own and moves out."

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "It's alright. We knew we couldn't keep her. Our place is more suited to something like a spaniel or a beagle, although Marci is talking about a pavement special. Either way it was never going to be permanent."

She bites her lip. He makes sense but she can still see he's sad, that saying goodbye is going to be hard on him. That even though he was a godsend and she's still pushing him for sainthood this has been unfair on him and it's going to take its toll one way or another.

Probably on all of them.

"He okay to drive?" Foggy asks turning his attention back to Frank. There's a certain wariness in his eyes which has nothing to do with Frank's motor skills and everything to do with the fact that Foggy's seeing The Punisher for the first time in months. And his opinion of Frank isn't as high or understanding as hers.

She can't really blame him. Almost no one gets to see the side of Frank that she does and that's how he likes it. No one gets to see the sweetness and the goofiness, the fierceness that isn't violent and bloodthirsty but steadfast and honourable. And because of that almost no one gets further than his bloodlust, his rage, his PTSD that he doesn't think he has.

Foggy trusts her though. It might be grudging, it might be wary, it might be all of those things but he trusts _her_ and, by extension, her assessment of Frank, even if it's not one he wholeheartedly shares. And she has to admit that there's another layer to all this - one none of them has ever mentioned. And that is that Frank could be the most wonderful man in the world and treat her as well as any decent man should, but it's not going to change the fact that he's still on the wrong side of the law even though everyone with the exception of Mitchell "Gutter Journalism" Ellison thinks he's dead.

She's harbouring a fugitive, she's an accomplice no matter how anyone tries to look at it and being in love with him isn't an excuse or a reason.

And these thoughts are too heavy for an already heavy day and she shakes them away, forces a smile onto her face.

"Claire seems to think he'll be okay," she says and Foggy nods, looks down the street and glances back to his car.

"Well she would know."

And then he huffs again. Goes quiet. And for a while no one says anything.

They make an odd grouping standing there on the sidewalk in the early morning light. Two men, one dressed head to toe in black, the other in a suit, her standing between them in a slate blue dress and a grey cardigan, and a silly, slobbery dog staring at Frank like he's the whole world and everything in it.

But it's not like there's anyone to see them really. The streets are empty and it's quiet too except for the faint pitter-patter of the rain on the tar, some cars in the distance.

She looks down at Frank. He's still on his knees, still stroking Luna's face and ears, still talking to her low and gentle and she's listening intently, head cocked to one side, tail wagging. And Karen's heart breaks a little for all of them. This is going to be tougher on Frank than she imagined. He doesn't have friends. Not really anyway. There's his contacts and then there's the rest of the world which he divides into people deserving of protection and people deserving of punishment. So basically that leaves her… but then he's also in love with her and that adds an extra complication for all of them. She guesses that means that Luna is essentially his easiest and most dependable company and taking her away is going to take away another part of him that he can't really afford to lose.

And it may seem silly or clichéd to those who don't have pets or don't get it but there's no denying the comfort they bring, nor the things people will do to keep them. She thinks of Pickle, how her life didn't really allow for a cat and how it still doesn't. And how Pickle isn't particularly concerned about how much inconvenience she causes.

And the fact is neither is she. The crazy little ball of Hazard Fluff is worth it. She's worth it every damn time. And so is Luna and it kills her a little inside that Frank's having to give that up. That he doesn't have a choice.

She leans down and puts a hand on his shoulder and for a second he stops talking to Luna and reaches up and squeezes her fingers before she lets him go.

He knows. He's thinking the exact same thing she is.

"Is she going to be well cared for?" Foggy blurts out next to her and she can hear the tension in his voice, a mixture of sadness and bravado and something else too. Something like discomfort.

And Frank goes still next to her, every muscle freezing the same way they did when he was going to kiss her and she told him to stop.

And then slowly he cocks his head to look at Foggy.

There's a second when she thinks he might be taken aback, that she can almost hear him wondering how anyone could ask something like that of him, how anyone could think - even for a second - that he wouldn't look after everything he has in the best way he can. That he wouldn't lay down his life for the things he loves.

Foggy seems to think so too and he swallows audibly and takes a step back as Frank stands, turns towards him.

And then slowly Frank holds out his hand, fingers outstretched and head slightly bowed, waiting. There's a beat, a short moment that seems to last forever, when the wind whirls around her thighs and the rain falls but the world itself is silent, holding its breath. And Foggy looks at Frank long and hard and she can see him frowning in that adorable way he does when he's conflicted or confused. She knows it must be hard for him - they can joke about Frank all they like and pretend that he's an exasperating friend or a errant man child but the fact remains that other than that brief moment when Frank brought her down from the mountains, the last time Foggy saw him he was shooting people to bits in Hell's Kitchen. And it would be ridiculous to think he's forgotten all the old evidence; the photos of the shootouts, the meathooks, the severed hands and Grotto's dead body. It's hard to push that aside, it's hard to see the goodness in it.

But Foggy reaches out and takes Frank's hand, gives it a firm shake and nods sharply before letting it go.

They're both quiet for a while and then Frank speaks and his voice is heavy but not unkind.

"I want to thank you and your lady for everything. I dunno what I would have done if you hadn't stepped up."

Foggy shifts, clears his throat. "Karen's a good friend. We'll always help her out."

"Yeah," Frank bites his lip thoughtfully as if he's digesting Foggy's words and their meaning. "I really appreciate this Nelson. Luna's a great dog and just knowing she was with good people..."

Foggy cuts him off. "It's fine, she was no trouble."

Frank looks away, blinks and there's a moment when his eyes look almost glassy. Foggy sees it too and suddenly he loses all his standoffishness and asks what they've all been thinking.

"Can't she stay? Marci and I don't mind keeping her a little longer until you guys…" he pauses clearly unsure how to phrase the rest of his sentence. "... sort things out."

But Frank shakes his head. "Ain't about us. About what's best for her."

He's right. He's so right but he sounds so sad, so resigned that Karen takes his hand, threads their fingers together and when he looks at her she gets a small tight grimace which she's come to know as a smile.

Foggy sighs dejectedly, glances up and down the street.

"You'll tell us how she is though? How she's getting on?"

And Karen's not sure if he's talking to her or Frank but she guesses it doesn't matter, even if the idea of Frank calling Marci every few days to update her on Luna is an amusing one.

She imagines him adding it to his to-do list. _Coffee. Murder. Bad music. Punishing. Snark. Torture. Call Marci to gush (at least 20 minutes)._

"Yeah, sure," Frank's voice is low and cracked and his fingers tighten on hers.

"Okay," says Foggy slowly and she realises he's buying time, trying hard to stave off the moment he has to get in his car and drive away. "Well that's all then."

He stands for a moment, staring into the distance like he's trying to gather his courage and then he goes down on his knees too, seemingly not caring about the wet, dirty ground and his pants or the scuffs on his shoes, and puts his arms around Luna's neck, buries his nose in her fur. And Luna gives him a long wet kiss from his chin all way up to his forehead and beats her tail heavily on the sidewalk.

There's a second Karen thinks her heart might break right then and there, that it might not be Frank that eventually does it. That it might not be her own guilt or pain. And it might just be a junkyard dog rescued from a life of abuse and suffering one night while the world turned in on itself and threw her a curveball she still hasn't quite got a handle on.

"You be a good girl Luna, you be the best girl. You show them that hellhounds have just got a bad rap and…"

He trails off, voice choked and tight. And Luna licks him again - this time straight across the mouth and into his ear - and he laughs sadly before pressing his lips to her head and giving her one last stroke from her shoulders to her tail.

When he stands his eyes are red and puffy and he doesn't look down again, doesn't seem to have it in himself to do so.

There _are_ wet stains on the knees of his pants and his jacket is covered in fur but he barely seems to notice and if he does, he doesn't care.

"I'll see you Wednesday Karen. Pick you up around 7:30?"

"Yeah."

He gives her a brief hug goodbye but his heart isn't in it and even though his hands feel weak against her, she can feel him trembling.

Next to her Luna whines softly and lets out a small yelp but Foggy ignores it. And then he inclines his head to Frank sternly and goes to his car and drives off.

And then it's just them and Luna and their broken hearts standing on the cold sidewalk in the early hours of the morning in Hell's Kitchen.

xxx

It takes a long while before they move again. There's something about the quiet, and how it feels like it's just the three of them in the whole world, that's oddly comforting. And they relish it. They let the moment fill them until it seems like everything else just fades behind a gauzy screen and the only things left are the way they're touching each other and the strange bond that was formed one hellish night millennia ago.

She finds she feels strangely out of time as well, like she's watching this happen to someone else. Like the whole last week hasn't really been her and him but rather a different woman capable of going toe to toe with the Punisher. A woman strong enough to hold him and comfort him and kick him out when he gets too much. A woman that could tear out his heart and stamp on it…

 _(Feed that shit to a dog)_

A woman strong enough for him to love.

And somehow that doesn't seem like her, even though she knows it is.

Even though he knows it too.

It doesn't make it any easier though. She still feels overwhelmed and out of place and like all these things have been happening to another version of her. That the real Karen Page - the actual flesh and bones one - is upstairs asleep and the last time she saw Frank Castle was on the roof of broken building when he looked at her with such sadness in his eyes she thought she might fall apart there and then.

But despite the tricks her mind is playing on her, she _isn't_ that Karen Page. She's standing here at his side, holding his hand and he's about to leave her again. And it has to be true, it has to be happening because the hole in her heart is real and so are the tears she can feel pricking in her eyes. And she's going to have to fight her way back through that gauze, that fog, and reclaim herself.

And then far in the distance she sees a woman round the corner at the top of the road and the spell is broken; there are other people here now and the world isn't just theirs anymore.

Frank feels it too and he moves next to her. He doesn't go far, just steps back slightly and pulls her and Luna with him.

"Come on," he says but there's no urgency in his tone. "I need to get going."

She nods, tries not to look at Luna as they walk around the building to his truck in the visitor's parking, tries hard not to think about what happened the last time she drove it.

She's decided how she's going to do this. Planned it out in her head because she's found that if she breaks tough things down into the smallest steps she can - and she does them one at a time - it might not be easier, but she stands less chance of losing her way. She has a plan, a blueprint, and that's comforting. The worst fear is that of the unknown after all.

So she's going to say goodbye to Luna. She's going to make a fuss and talk to her in that doggy voice she likes so much. She'll ruffle her ears and accept slobbery kisses. And then she's going to put that behind her as best she can and she'll to hug Frank goodbye and try and hold onto what it feels like to be in his arms.

And then she's going to let him go.

And that's going to be it.

Simple steps that are very hard. Simple steps that will break her heart.

But it's a plan. It's _her_ plan.

 _If you want God to laugh…_

She does follow him to the truck and while he's busy unlocking it she, like Foggy, drops to her knees in front of Luna and talks low and soft to her. Later she won't remember exactly what she said. A lot of it didn't matter because it's just really the sound of her voice that Luna responded to anyway. But she tells her that she's good, she's the best, that they'll check in on her and she deserves all the good things. And then she tells her sternly to look after Frank, to make sure he doesn't get up to any nonsense, and he behaves. And Luna barks happily and she gets a face full of dog breath but she doesn't care.

And then she ruffles her ears and rubs her snout and steels herself to start the next phase of her goodbye - the one that's both harder and easier. But she doesn't get a chance because as she shifting to stand up, Frank's already pulling her into his arms, holding her tight as he can, hands digging into her back and face buried in her hair.

It's hard to breathe. And not just because of the force with which he's holding her but it doesn't matter. She has her whole life to breathe, and right now it's not important. Right now, nothing is important except the feel of him pressed to her, the way her lips are against his throat and how again there's no one in the whole world except them.

He's not saying anything, he's not whispering confessions to her, not making promises and she's grateful for that. She doesn't want to have to think about that just yet - the whys and the hows and everything in between. She just wants to hold him as tight as he's holding her. She just wants to let herself choke on the way he's making her feel and not think about anything else. Not think about moving on or taking the next step in her plan. He's here and she's here and the moment they have to let go seems so very far away.

So she lets him crush her, lets his mouth roam the cold skin of her shoulder, his fingertips trail up and down the nape of her neck. He's shivering a little and he breathes out a choked groan into her hair and she pulls him closer.

He's hers. She's known it since the night in the graveyard, watched him as he fell over the edge and into the great unknown below, but part of her has been waiting for him to start fighting it again. To build up his strength and take a step back. Reassess and find reasons to run. But he hasn't. And she realises he doesn't want to. He _needs_ to belong, even if it's only to her. Even if it's only for these small moments they can carve out of time for themselves.

She has no doubt it will come to an end. But she really doesn't want to think about that right now.

Instead she tightens her grip on him, breathes in his warmth, the smell of soap and coffee, and underneath that gunmetal scent that seems to just be a part of his flesh and bones.

"I don't want to leave you," he says low and close to ear and she's not sure if it's his words or the way his breath tickles her skin that turns her whole body to gooseflesh.

It's irrelevant though. She's not going with him, no matter how much both of them want her to. No matter how appealing the idea of running off together to the countryside might sound. He needs to do this himself - he said as much and even if she doesn't really understand his reasons, she respects them.

They _do_ need time.

And she knows this is the point in her blueprint, in her million step plan when she is supposed to move away, where she's got to say her goodbyes and turn her back on him and trust the universe and Frank's own words that he'll come home. She isn't worried about the latter - he doesn't lie to her - but the former… the universe and the fucking bitch she can be where Frank Castle is concerned gives her more than just pause. But then again he's has given the fucking cosmos the finger more than once and she thinks if he has the right incentive he can do it again. And maybe, just maybe she - Karen Page - is enough.

For now.

She presses her lips to his jaw, his beard tickling her face. She suddenly has the overwhelming desire to tell him she loves him, to say the actual words. To give them form and put them out there. See if they really can change the world. Shatter it. Fix it. She doesn't know.

But then he's patting her back gently.

"Come on," he whispers. "We're making a scene."

And it's okay, because she can tell him later. He said he would come back and he will and they'll have all the time in the world.

So she nods against him, opens her eyes and, over his shoulder, sees the woman still heading down the road, something almost familiar about her gait.

But she doesn't think about it, because she's looking at Frank and the way he's breaking her in half with his eyes.

"You be safe," she says and he ducks his head, brings a hand up from her waist and touches her jaw with his knuckles.

"You too."

"I'll miss you."

"Be back with you soon."

It sounds like a promise. So she makes one of her own.

"I'll be waiting."

And then she's at that moment, that last step where she has to leave, where she has to move her hands off him and his off her, take a step back and let him go. Walk away.

She's Karen Page. She can do this.

But he's Frank Castle. And he can't.

She _does_ take her hands off him and she does step back, her heels making a hard sound on the sidewalk. And she does start to turn.

She _does_.

But then his hand trails down her arm, over her elbow and her wrist and his fingers thread through hers; she thinks they'll just slip through, a small lingering last touch before all his warmth is gone.

But that's not what happens. That's not what happens at all.

Instead his hand closes over hers, tight and firm and he doesn't hesitate as he tugs her back sharply so that her chest is flush with his and his breath is warm against her lips.

And he's looking at her, looking _through_ her, searching her face for something. Something that makes him weak. Something that makes her strong.

She sees the exact moment that he finds it. Hears it in the way his voice catches in his throat, feels it in the way he moves against her.

She doesn't look away.

She won't.

He doesn't get to control that.

So she swallows, lays a gentle hand over his heart and watches him watch her.

His breathing is heavy and his pupils are blown but she can still see flecks of gold in his eyes, the faintest hints of greens and ambers as the dim light catches them, the long lashes that most women would chop off their arms for.

It hits her again that there's something beautiful about him, something as dangerous and broken as it is sweet and gentle. Something as profound and destructive as it is loyal and lost.

And she loves him.

She loves _all_ of him. The same way he loves all of her.

It's time. It's right. They've waited long enough.

His gaze flickers over her face, her hair, her forehead and finally drops to her lips and without thinking she licks them, parts them.

And then it's all him. His hand sliding down to her cheek and neck to cup the back of her head, the other pressing her firmly against him so she can feel his heartbeat through his chest; his smell filling her up, his heat starting at the place where their bodies are joined and blooming outwards down her arms and legs anchoring her to the ground. To the world. To him.

And then his mouth. _Oh god_ his mouth. Hot and heavy on her, his lips nudging hers apart and his tongue sliding inside, licking at her, tasting her. Letting her taste him, letting her swallow him.

Letting her drown in him.

And she does. She gives herself over to it. To him. To his hands, his mouth. And it's easy. Easy as falling down. And she does fall. She falls so damn far and he catches her. Holds her. Keeps her safe.

And then it's just them kissing in the rain, in the cold, the wind whipping at her legs and lifting her dress like it did one night a million years ago when she danced on the roof under a sky made of fire.

Just them. Kissing in the rain. The Punisher - the big bad Punisher - and the girl that loves him more than she's ever loved anyone in her whole life.

It's true that there are lots of things she could wonder about - she's played variations of this moment over in her head thousands of times since the night in the Catskills. What this means for her, for them. How much it complicates things or alternatively if it complicates them at all. What this says about where he is mentally and emotionally. What it says about her.

But she doesn't. She doesn't think about anything other than the heady masculine taste of him, the firm press of his lips, the roughness of his fingers against her skin, the way he's making her body feel like a pillar of flame despite the chill of the day and the shivers running down her back.

She wants this. She wants him. And it doesn't matter that he's a little messy, a little wet and overeager as their teeth knock together and his tongue slides roughly along hers. It's him and it's her and his mouth is on her and that's all that counts, the only thing in the world worth having.

And then her hands are running up his arms, over the broad lines of his shoulders to the back of his neck and into his hair where it's long and thick and she can angle him towards her, tilt her head so he can kiss her harder and deeper and with more rage and fury and tenderness than he has done up until now.

And he does. Twisting her around so her back is against the truck door, the cold metal doing nothing to cool the fire in her skin, his body pressing against her and his knee slipping between her thighs.

She remembers how he did this before, how he pushed her up against the wall on the roof, how she tried not to bear down on his leg too hard because she was nervous and hesitant and how he shifted so that she had to.

And then he almost let her fall.

And she knows he won't do that now. They've put too much blood on each other. It's not an excuse anymore.

He is moving her again, one hand gripping her waist, thumb rubbing along her hipbone pressing into her skin hard enough to bruise. And then he's urging her closer, bracing her on his leg and shifting himself into that warm space they've created together so that he's almost crushing her between his chest and the door of his truck.

And it doesn't hurt. Because he could never hurt her. Not like this. Not with his hands and his mouth. His arms. He might think he's been changed and his body sculpted and honed to bring pain, to bring death and suffering into the world and maybe he has - maybe that isn't altogether wrong - but that all stops when it comes to her. Because with her he's gentle, kind, his body bringing only tenderness and desire. And she doesn't really know what she ever did to deserve that. Why, ultimately, he seems to have chosen her to become his respite, his sanctuary; the place he comes to forget about the rest of the world and how he's killing it until it makes sense again.

He's not The Punisher now. He's just a man. And she's just a woman. And no matter what happens after nothing can take this away from them.

Slower now, his hand on her hip easing slightly, the fingers in her hair coming to rest gently against the nape of her neck, to draw little patterns into her flesh. He still kissing her though, his tongue hot and wet in her mouth. And he's sweet. So _very_ sweet as he seems to find some of that control he wears like armour, some of that training, that discipline that he falls back on when things get overwhelming.

And the truth is she can't wait to take that away from him again. Take it all. Strip him - not only of his clothes but also his restraint until he's lost himself with her.

She doesn't know why - it's not like she considers herself a highly experienced or confident lover, quite the contrary in fact - but she thinks she can do it. And she doesn't think it will be hard.

Doesn't think it will be at all.

But not now. Not now, even though it feels like they're on a knife edge and it wouldn't take more than a whisper to get him back into her apartment, into her bed.

He has to go. He has to do this and then he can come back to her. Because he will. Because he said he will and they don't lie.

 _(Don't you know?)_

 _(I know)_

She's lingering though, unwilling to face him just yet, see the lust in his eyes and deal with the aftermath of this. So when he pulls back, she lets him take his time kissing her face, his lips gentle on her skin and in her hair, fingertips running over her cheekbones and the hard line of her jaw, before he takes a ragged breath and puts his forehead to hers.

She keeps her eyes closed, tries to stretch the moment and the warm place they've made for each other a little longer, a little further. And, for a while, she does. _They_ do. For a while the whole world is her breathing his breath and touching his skin. The whole world is the heat of his palm on her hip and the small uneven stroke of his thumb against her face.

And then after a while it isn't.

It happens slowly though - the coming down, the reconnecting. She becomes aware of little things: the drizzle that's now turned to harder rain, the sound of cars going past, the cold wind against her legs even though his knee is still between them.

And then he kisses her lips again and pulls back slightly and she knows she has to walk away again. She has to go back to her blueprint and it's going to be so much harder than it was before.

She opens her eyes and he's already looking at her. She knew he would be. And she can only describe his expression as awe, wonder. And even though that should be unbelievable, it should be impossible and ridiculous because he's the fucking Punisher and she's just Karen Page, and she _shouldn't_ have this effect on him, she knows she does. She accepts it. And it's easy. It's right.

And then he snorts, mouth twisting into that half smile as he shakes his head and looks down at the ground, at Luna, at the place where his knee is still wedged between her thighs. She knows what he's thinking. That they're insane, that they're idiots, that they shouldn't have made this as big a deal as they did. That they're two hopeless fools.

He's right about it all. Every last bit and she snorts too, waits for him to look back at her.

"I really have to get going now."

He sounds ragged and breathless and a little on edge.

And she nods. She can walk away now. She can do it.

So she kisses him again, lingers long and gentle and he touches her jaw with his knuckles, lets his hand settle on her throat.

"Hold that thought," he whispers and she knows he's trying to be nonchalant and he's failing wonderfully.

But she will hold it. She'll hold it until he's back and she doesn't need to hold it anymore.

She steps away from him, knows he's watching her as she does. Can feel his eyes boring right through her and she doesn't need to wonder what he's thinking because she's thinking it too.

She touches Luna's head one more time, takes a breath.

The air tastes different and the world looks new, brighter despite the rain and the clouds. And yet everything is still the same - the cars, the smog, the woman she saw earlier now hurrying away so that Karen can see her dark ponytail bouncing in the wind.

She turns, walks to her car. She doesn't watch him drive away.

xxx

She spends the rest of the morning in a bit of a daydream. She catches herself staring out of the window on more than one occasion before lunch, absently running her fingers over her lips whenever her hands aren't occupied. And she can't help it, but she imagines more. Her body under his as he pins her to her bed, his mouth on her neck, her breasts, her belly, her thighs.

 _Idle hands are the devil's workshop indeed._ And judging by the quality of her thoughts the devil has come to collect.

Ellison isn't there and there's nothing from him in her inbox either so she decides to let sleeping dogs lie and wait for him to come to her. There's really not all that much to say anyway.

Joe tries to ask her about Friday's altercation but she brushes him off, tells him it was a professional disagreement and isn't there any weather he needs to lie about. He flashes a grin at her and asks if she wants to go out with a group of the production people tonight for drinks. It's just down at Josie's, he says, and maybe afterwards they could grab some takeout, just the two of them?

And she knows this is how it starts. That he's found that courage he's been looking for for months now to ask her out and has done it in the most innocuous way possible. And she doesn't want to dash his hopes. She's not cruel like that. But at the same time Frank Castle sleeps in her bed and even if what happened this morning hadn't happened, and sleeping was all they did with no chance of it ever going further, she can't go on dates and come home to slide between the sheets with him and let his hands turn her skin fevered and his lips send shivers down her spine. She's not willing to give that up, doesn't think she ever will be.

Come what may.

She declines and she can see the disappointment on Joe's face, the joy going out of his eyes but he recovers quickly, plasters on another grin.

"Maybe another time then," he says cheerfully but she can hear the catch in his voice, the resignation. There isn't going to be another time and he knows it. But she smiles at him and shrugs and he walks out of her office before she can say anything.

She sighs, leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers and stops when she remembers that it's a habit she's picked up from Ellison and she doesn't want to be picking up anything from him right about now.

She lets her mind wander for a while, thinks about Foggy and the upcoming party and the little black dress she wants to wear; thinks about Pickle and how now that Frank's gone she's going to have to find somewhere new to sleep and not pressed up against the small of his back like a fucking barnacle on a steamship. And then her thoughts segue right back to this morning and Frank's mouth on hers, his hand pressing hard into her hip.

She thought a kiss would change everything and maybe it did. Maybe everything is different. But she's still here and she's fine and she's still Karen Page: Intrepid Reporter, Lover of Vigilantes and Holder Back of Tears under Extreme Duress. And he's going to come home soon and they're going to work all of this out.

He's not going to let her fall. She's going to do the same for him.

And suddenly again she has that irrational idea that somewhere they can find a solution, a happy ending, that maybe things could work out. Even though things have literally never worked out for Karen Page. Ever. That's just not on the cards. It's just not part of the fucking bitch of a universe's plan. She has her Punisher and she's going to hold onto him. Two hands. And never let go. And Karen knows what happens when you go up against the world, when you fight enemies that aren't real. When you stop being like Frank and taking out the bad guys one by bloody one and instead you aim high and hard.

It never works. And it's not going to work this time.

But for now she can dream. For now she doesn't need to think too far ahead.

She touches her lips again, runs her fingers over them. He must be in Jersey by now - the drive isn't long and she wonders if he's thinking about her. If he's also remembering how she felt, what her kisses tasted like. Or if he's just being Frank and pushing all of that to the back of his mind and focusing on Luna and whether this place - whatever it is - is right for her.

He hasn't said when he'll be back and she didn't push him. This is about him giving up something he loves desperately and dearly. This is about doing the right thing even if it is hard. And, as she suspects, it's about reconnecting with this woman she knows only as Kat and whatever reason it is that she owes him the favour she does.

And no, she didn't ask and he didn't tell. Not because he wants to keep secrets but maybe because she's not ready to deal with that aspect of his life just yet. She's glad though, glad that there are people other than her to look out for him, glad that others can see the goodness in him as well. Even if there are times that he can't.

"Buy you a cup of coffee Page?"

It's like a needle scratching across a record, a horrible jolt out of her own head as she turns to look at her door.

Ellison. Leaning. Ill-fitting pants and his beard looks terrible. So not much has changed. Except he looks sheepish, contrite in a way she hasn't really seen before. And his smile is hopeful. Fake, but hopeful nonetheless.

"You can say no. I'm not pulling rank," he says and his humour is also fake. "But I really hope you say yes. It'll do us some good to get out anyway."

"Not like I've spent much time here over the last couple of days," she says pointedly and he shrugs.

"You'll make it up. You always do." He stands for a while waiting for her to say something and when she doesn't he starts again. "Come on. It's just coffee. And I know a place where the mugs are clean and they don't use instant."

Despite herself she smiles.

"I should only agree if it's Josie's," she says and his smile falters. "You deserve a mug that used to be home to a cockroach."

He recoils a little at that and his expression is enough to tell her that imagining a roach is as bad for him as actually seeing one, like the very thought dirtied his mind.

"You want Josie's, we'll go to Josie's," he sighs. "Do they even serve coffee there?"

"Uh-huh," she nods. "Salmonella's on the side though."

He makes a face like he can't believe she would even joke about this.

She lets him ponder that a while and then she relents. "Okay, let's go see your fancy coffee shop. We'll see how it compares."

The relief on his face is almost comical and she finds that she is struggling to stay angry at him. It doesn't help that he was 90% right in pretty much everything he said on Friday. And not just the stuff about Frank but the fact that he does look out for her and he does give her a hell of a lot of leeway. And it is patently ridiculous that Karen Page who was an unqualified legal secretary who is now technically an unqualified journalist, despite her actual skill, has an office of her own and the freedom to write almost anything she pleases on account of Ellison's belief and defence of her.

And his mentoring. She can't forget that.

He is good to her. She can be good back.

She grabs her purse and they head out.

xxx

It's not as awkward as she expects. Still though it's a hell of a thing to realise that, simply on account of his absence, Matthew Murdock is just about the only man in her life who has not given her some kind of trouble today. The bar is apparently very low.

Very, very low.

But Ellison is reserved and kind and the mugs are indeed clean and the coffee shop cosy.

He apologises first and foremost. Tells her he was out of line and insufferable and if she wants to go the HR he won't contest it and is happy to go on whatever people skills training they think he needs. Or alternatively, join a chain gang, because he thinks that will have much the same effect on his personality.

And she snorts. Tells him she agrees there's no cure for being a jerk and he purses his lips at her and sips his caramel latte frappe with extra cream and chocolate sprinkles.

"You _do_ know where he is though,"

He isn't asking. And it doesn't seem like he's trying to ferret any information out of her but she's been here before and she doesn't trust him. Not that much anyway.

"You've made up your mind Mitchell. It doesn't matter what I say."

He looks at her over the top of his glasses.

"Evasive. I like that. It's clever. And you're better at that than lying. But your game face Karen…"

She doesn't answer. Sips her coffee too; he's right about it, it's good. Deep and rich.

"Okay look," he says. "I'm going to be straight with you. The board is a bunch of dicks. They have no idea how news works and all they can do is lament the death of print.

"Now I'm not saying print isn't dying. It is. And maybe that isn't the worst thing in the world. We need the goddamn trees. And technically loss of paper shouldn't mean loss of news. We still have to populate the website and the app. Just because people don't want to hold a paper doesn't mean they don't want to read the news. But the board is still desperate for that big splash. They want the print edition to do better because we can sell the space for more…"

He trails off and she knows this grates him. He told her once how he hates that in its most cynical definition a reporter's job is putting words on a page so that readers will see the advert next to it. She loathe to admit it, but it's true.

"Anyway, what I'm saying here is that if we could position ourselves as the paper that can get the exclusives... if we can interview Daredevil, if we can start talking to these people who apparently are, well, a little larger than life, I could get the board off my back. A book itself could come later but we could start building hype now. And, like I said on Friday, Daredevil could just be the beginning."

He makes sense, more than she wants him to. And the truth is while she can turn down the book, getting a directive from her boss to interview Daredevil is a little less cut and dry. She's a reporter and that's a story.

"Look I'm not gonna force you," he says. "And I'm sorry I can't ask you to do this for Frank Castle."

She snorts. "Like Frank Castle would agree if I asked."

He doesn't laugh though. Instead he looks at her long and hard.

"I think we both know he would Karen," He's dead serious. "If you asked he would. Even if it would mean exposing himself."

She doesn't know how to answer that and she can feel her cheeks turning pink under his gaze.

"Seems to me a while ago you were convinced Frank Castle was trying to kill me."

He inclines his head and takes another sip of coffee, cream catching in his moustache.

"And I was wrong. Look I'm not saying I like Frank or what he does. He's unhinged and even you know that, no matter what else is going on there. But he's saved your life at least twice that I know of and I'd say that's probably about a third to half of the actual total."

He's right again. And she realises how much she underestimates him. He's annoying and curmudgeonly and he can be a bully but he's also smart and not just because she sucks at lying and he can catch her out.

"Anyway, enough about Frank Castle. Right now the world thinks he's dead and I'm guessing I'd lose you if I did anything to change its mind."

She gives him a sharp look and he holds up his hands. "Sorry. Sorry. Look I'm not going to say anything. Even if I was stupid enough I have no proof and Page, despite what happened on Friday, I care about you. I don't want to jeopardise that."

 _Okay_ …

"So what are you asking me Mitchell? Why are we here?"

He puts his empty mug down and wipes his mouth with a serviette, looks at it like it's now infected and puts it on his saucer, pushes it slightly further away than he needs to.

"Honestly, right now I don't know. I want to say I'm sorry. I was wrong…" he trails off and she knows that he's not admitting to being wrong in his assessment of the situation, but rather his execution. "And I would very much like to continue working with you and I would like it if you felt the same."

"That's okay," she says. "Water. Bridges. Etcetera, etcetera."

He grins and sits back in his chair, pulls off his glasses and starts cleaning them on his shirt.

"I guess, I just wanted to put our heads together. You _get_ this journalism gig. You're young and idealistic…" he gives her a long and pointed look. "But you _get_ it. You're good.

"The board was harsh Karen and I need something. Something to get those numbers up, some exclusive. I'm asking you because you can get people to talk, to tell you things," he huffs, looks to the side and wipes some imaginary crumbs off his shirt. "I want the book. I'm not letting that go. I want it because I think it's an opportunity. I think it could be big and I think you're the person to kick it off. But that's a little far into the future. We can put a pin in it until you're ready, but I need something and I need it soon, before the next board review which is in August. Because if we don't get it, the board is going to start overruling me and they're going to insist on retrenchments and cuts or worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah… cat blogs…"

She chuckles and he smiles with her. And she's not angry with him anymore. She can't be. Not about the clickbait, not about Friday either. She doesn't even hate the book idea as much as she used to, although she's not going to say anything about that just yet. Ellison is difficult and used to getting his own way but when he's honest and aboveboard she finds it hard to turn him down.

"Okay," she says and he looks up at her like he must have heard her wrong. "Give me some time and I'll find your exclusive."

He nods and she continues.

"Does it have to be Daredevil though? Could it be something else?"

He shakes his head. "No, just something big. What were you thinking?"

She looks at him pointedly and it doesn't take long before he sighs exasperatedly and bangs his hands on the table.

"Oh god Page, not Smirnov again."

He rolls his eyes and she gives him an annoyed look. And fair enough, it's not that she has anything concrete but it feels like there's something coming. Something in the air that'll deliver him into her lap, a false move that'll expose him. And she'll be ready.

"Give me a little leeway with it. Just a few more days and if it doesn't work out, I'll ask Daredevil for the interview. I'll get you something one way or another, just don't force my hand on this."

He starts. She knew he would. The theatre. The sports field. The town hall. She waits him out. Sometimes he's like a child with this. A lot of bluster and then he wears himself out.

But then again he's also smart. Too smart for his own damn good. And when he's eventually gotten through his rant he gives her a knowing look.

"What is it with you and Daredevil? I know you and Castle have some kind of history, which I'm putting down to you wanting to save rabid dogs or something, but the man in the red suit? Why are you so dead set on avoiding him? So dead set that you'd rather go on this wild goose chase instead of just giving him a call?"

The question catches her off guard. And that in itself is stupid because it's not really unexpected that Ellison would ask it. It's also not unexpected that it doesn't take him long to figure out the answer.

"Jesus Christ Karen," he says as understanding dawns on his face. "The Punisher _and_ Daredevil? Really? Do you have a death wish or do you just wear _eau de vigilante_ on your days off?"

"It's really not like that. It was a one-time thing … it wasn't really even a thing," she says and he gives her a look that tells her he doesn't believe her for one millisecond.

"How can you be so anti-clickbait when you're basically delivering that shit right into my lap?" he asks. "'Area woman reveals seven-point plan to nabbing your own crime fighter. Number four will blow your mind!'"

She can't help it and she giggles and seemingly encouraged he continues.

"Have you got what it takes to stand up to the Punisher? Find out with this one easy quiz.

"Daredevil saves woman from ninja kidnapper. You won't believe what happens next."

She knows he'll carry on as long as he can, and while he's amusing, that could easily be the rest of the day, so she takes charge of the conversation, steers him away from both his amusement at his own ingenuity and his interest in her love life. She knows it won't deter him but at least they can get through this coffee without another bust up about lady boners.

"Tell you what. Let me worry about my social life and getting you something big. You worry about clean crockery and evading the cat blogs."

His smile falters and he narrows his eyes at her and for a second she thinks he's going to push. Ask her for details, demand a blow by blow account of her love life, such as it may be. But he doesn't.

Suddenly sober, he sighs, runs a hand through his hair and looks away, calls the waitress for the check.

"Karen, be careful. I'm not saying this as a boss or whatever. I was wrong about Castle and I own that. But these people you know, him, Daredevil. They're dangerous even if _they_ are not trying to kill. Hell, even if Castle's protecting you it's still not safe. In fact him caring for you could make things even more dangerous for you."

It's sweet. It's so sweet of him and she reaches across the table and squeezes his hand briefly.

"You and your patriarchal bullshit," she says lightly and he purses his lips.

"You can't embarrass me with that Page. I said what I said and I'm sticking with it."

He's good to her and it means something knowing he cares. But she's not ready to let him off the hook that easy.

She narrows her eyes. "Local reporter investigates sexism in the workplace. What she finds shocks the nation."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on," he says, grinning despite himself. "You have time to make up."

And she nods.

She does.

xxx

Later that night lying in an empty bed with Pickle pressed into her side she doesn't think about any of this. Smirnov, Daredevil, Ellison. No stories or interviews or exclusives. She leaves her work at work for once, where it belongs.

Instead, she touches her lips again, imagines Frank kissing her, his mouth hot and fevered on hers, little butterfly kisses against her jaw, her throat, scattered over her shoulders and breasts.

Lower maybe. Her belly, her thighs and that burning space between.

The bed smells of him. Heavy and warm. Soap and gunpowder and coffee. And she holds his pillow to her nose, breathes him in; imagines him lying beside her, hot as a blast furnace as he pulls her closer and his hands brush lightly over her skin, turning it to gooseflesh and making her arch against him. She thinks of him at the cabin and what would have happened if he turned around, if he saw her standing there naked… naked save for a small pair of translucent panties that showed off more than they covered. If he would have taken her.

 _How_ he would have taken her.

She closes her eyes, thinks of his gaze and the way it eats her up, the hunger on his face and how he doesn't even try to hide it. Not that he could. Not anymore. Not with the way she felt him pressing hard against her today, not with the way he put his mouth on hers and swallowed her whole.

A breathy moan in the back of her throat and she lets her hand travel down over her breasts, her stomach, her hip, under her shorts and nestle between her thighs.

She's hot and wet. Soaking _soaking_ wet. And her skin is swollen. She's not surprised. She's done nothing but think about him like this for the longest time and today they took another step closer to making it a reality. Today she touched him and tasted him and felt the desire in him. Today they crossed that point of no return, that line in the sand.

There's no going back. They both know it. And that's okay. She doesn't want that option on the table anymore. And, despite everything he's lost and all his rage and pain and confusion, he doesn't either.

She runs her fingers over the crease of her thigh where her skin is hot and slippery. And then up her soft, smooth flesh to the hard little bead at the apex of her lips. She sighs, lets out a little moan and rubs downwards in a firm stroke. Her hands aren't like his. Not nearly as rough and demanding as she imagines they would be on her, but still, it feels good. It feels really good and she chokes back a sob, does it again, lifts her hips to her palm, slips a finger inside herself, then another. Gently she presses upwards, gasps hard as she finds the right spot even if the angle feels awkward.

She hasn't done this in a while. A long while. Not with him here but also not for a long time before that too. And she wonders why. Why she's neglected this part of herself, why she's deemed it inconsequential until now.

Another small sound pushes itself out of her throat and she imagines him lying next to her, curled around her, mouth to her throat, hands in her hair, whispering in her ear. His voice like gravel as he tells her things. Things like he loves her and she's beautiful and then things like how to touch herself, what to show him.

She presses hard inside herself again, takes a breath, another stroke on her clit.

And she's about to give herself over to it. Let this happen, even if part of her wants to wait for it, for him. But this waiting has gone on for so long now that she's not even sure when it became "waiting" as such, when it morphed from her everyday life into expectation, anticipation. So no, she wants it. She wants him but she wants _it_ too.

And then she hears her phone ring and when she opens her eyes she can see its light burning brightly and throwing blue shadows across the room.

She sighs and pushes herself up onto her elbows, leans across Pickle to grab at it, but as her hand closes around it, it goes dead and the light starts to fade.

She doesn't recognise the number. There's no voice message either and when she calls back all she gets is a generic answering service which gives no indication of who the caller is. She wonders if it's Frank but something tells her it's not. He's unlikely not to have a private number and either way he'd leave a message. But she doesn't let it bother her. Wrong number, ass dial, cold calling to sell her insurance she doesn't need, she has bigger things to worry about.

Much much bigger things. Like the fact that she doesn't have the man she loves' cell number and the fact that she doesn't know how to get hold of him, that he could just disappear and she'd never ever know where he went.

Except he promised he'd come home. He promised. And she said she'd be waiting for him.

And they don't lie.

She rolls back onto her side and buries her face in his pillow.

 _They don't lie._


	11. Everyone here knows everyone here

**So, sorry about the long wait but I was trying to get the next chapter finished before i posted this one. I didn't entirely succeed but it's close.**

 **Which brings me to another point. I don't know how long I am still going to be updating on this site. I'm finding it's not actually working out for me particularly well and often I even forget that that I do update here. I'll see how I go, but if I suddenly stop you can always find me over at Archive of our Own. This story is called _Be My Saviour and I'll Be Your Downfall_ there.**

 **I'll see. I don't know. I'm a little disillusioned right now.**

 **In the meantime, here it is and the title is from _Back 2 Good_ by Matchbox Twenty.**

* * *

She tries not to think about him too much.

 _Tries_.

Fails.

Keeping him out of her thoughts was never going to be a roaring success anyway. And the truth is it's not like he's unpleasant to think about. Not like the set of his jaw and the pout of his lips, the hard dark eyes, aren't good things to spend her time remembering.

So she does. That and the taste of his lips, the warmth of his hands. The way he stopped being afraid to say what he was feeling.

To _feel_ what he was feeling.

And then of course his desire for her. His _need_.

He'll consume her and she can't wait.

But not tonight. And probably not tomorrow either. He didn't say when he'd be back and she didn't ask. He might make her world better, but he doesn't make it _right_. That she has to do by herself.

She realises it's a very fine line she's walking; missing him terribly and at the same time needing this space away from him without actually wanting it. It's confusing and it messes with her head and she's almost grateful for the distraction of Smirnov's party - the fact that she has something else to think about.

She picks up her phone, checks the time. Foggy will be here soon and she's not going to keep him waiting. Honest to God though she hopes he doesn't come to the door because Irene is on duty tonight (and yes she wants to laugh about that because it feels like Irene is on duty every night) and she can just imagine the steely-eyed looks she's going to get when yet _another_ man comes calling.

Irene really would have done better as a matron in a ladies residence. With curfews. And room inspections. In 1945. But apparently she's stuck in the wrong decade and taking that out on every woman who dares accept any of the newfound freedoms of modern society. Such as they may be.

Karen sighs. Nothing to be done for it. Nothing at all.

She finishes her make up, applies a little lipstick and starts on her hair. She's decided on loose curls, a few sparkly hairpins. Nothing fancy. She wants to look pretty but innocuous at the same time, more arm candy than not. Someone to be seen but not really remembered.

It's a demeanour she realises she cultivated well for a while now, often without knowing it. A nervous disposition worn like armour so no one would pay attention to her, so that no one would really _see_ her. And then somebody did. And he cut through the bullshit she didn't even know she was putting out into the world. So she stopped living it. She stopped pretending she wasn't the woman who shot James Wesley or the girl who had stars in her eyes for Matthew Murdock. She can be all these things and she can be none of them at all.

It's allowed. _She's_ allowed.

Naked, save for short robe, she goes into the bedroom, sits on the bed and nudges Pickle away gently when she tries to climb onto her lap.

She pulls on a pair of panties, rolls her stockings up her legs, fixes the garter ties, tightens her bra and then for a moment she just sits there looking down at the floor.

She wonders if Frank would like this. Her, decked out like a clichéd _Victoria's Secret_ advert. The black lace, the satin, the pale tops of her thighs where they peek out next to the sheerness of her stockings.

On the one hand she thinks it's almost _too_ obvious. It's _too_ expected. On the other, she did see the flare in his eyes when the wind lifted her skirt on the roof that night, the way he watched the lace and her legs and how she dismissed it with a nonchalant "Not like he's never seen legs before."

But maybe that was wrong. He hasn't seen _her_ legs. He hasn't seen _her_ tits. And maybe that is the difference.

Maybe.

Regardless, she has no way of knowing until she does. _If_ she does. And she wonders how much of a question that still is. She doesn't want to be presumptuous and she sure as shit doesn't want to tempt fate by making plans, especially _those_ kind of plans. But she also doesn't want to be stupid. Naive.

It's another fine line. Another balancing act. And she's getting so tired of those that it's inevitable that she'll fall down. Crash. Break. But until then she'll let herself wonder about these things - the little things that aren't little at all.

He does like the dress she's picked for tonight though - of that at least she's sure. He didn't say as much but it was easy to see on his face when she pulled it out of her wardrobe, the way his eyes roamed over the black satin, the silvery beaded detail on the bodice.

She can feel her thighs going loose as she thinks on it, the warmth between her legs, that gentle flutter in the pit of her belly.

And no, _no_ she doesn't have time for this. She's not going to start something which she has no hope of finishing. But, as she rests a hand on the silky skin of her thigh, she really wants to. She really _really_ does. But maybe she wants him to do it more. And again those images come to her. Him looming over her in her bed, his mouth hot on her skin, sparks shooting down her spine one by one and then all at once, faster and harder, until it makes her crack, makes her _shatter_ , and then the same for him.

She wonders if he's thinking of her. _How_ he's thinking of her. If she's naked and ready and wet for him; or alternatively, if he's managed to exert some of that ridiculous self-control and pushed all that away. Maybe in his thoughts she's just the sweet girl waiting at home for him.

Or maybe he also knows she can be both.

She tells herself to get it together, to stop this nonsense. There'll be time to think about all these things later. But not now with the clock ticking and Foggy on his way.

She stands, reaches for her dress and slides it over her head, smooths a hand over the beadwork.

Her black rose necklace would have been perfect for this. Just dark enough to match, just formal enough to sparkle. Perfect for _this_. Not perfect for her. Not who she is. And she doesn't think too long on it further than to hope it's still around Maria's neck, keeping her safe, keeping her promise.

Instead she opts for small crystal earrings and a cuff bracelet and she's just about to spray some perfume and step into what she considers some ill-advised silver high heels when her buzzer goes and Irene tells her she has a "gentleman caller", in pretty much the same tone Karen imagines she would have said "pimp" or "john".

 _Fancy man._

She says she's on her way and Irene makes a sound that could be surprise or also very possibly disappointment but Karen's already grabbing her coat and purse and she doesn't get to hear the rest of Irene's repertoire of disapproving noises.

She has no doubt there's enough to keep her going for the next few weeks.

Foggy is leaning on Irene's desk when she gets downstairs and it's possible he looks even more dapper than he did on Monday. His suit is charcoal and she thinks it might be tailor-made because it hugs him just right, covering the belly he's constantly bemoaning and making him look sleek and suave. His shoes are shiny and his hair tied back neatly and he looks the very picture of a high-profile city lawyer.

He sucks in a breath when he sees her too, makes absolutely no effort to hide the fact that he's checking her out from her too high-heels to her too low bodice and the pretty pins in her hair.

And just when it's gone on long enough to be a little awkward he pulls a face, sticks his tongue out at her, and her goofy best friend is back. She does the same and he chuckles, holds out his arm dramatically and gives Irene a wink over his shoulder, adds some finger guns for effect.

"Do I make the cut? Am I chic enough?" she asks and he pretends to ponder this, expression overly conflicted as he takes the opportunity to fake leer at her again.

"You'll do," he says opening the door for her.

"I'll _do_?"

"It was a toss up between you and your building security, but I thought she might kill me."

"Astute…"

"Oh thanks. Your ass is cute too."

She gives him a gentle punch on the arm and he chuckles.

She's glad to see him in a better mood than he was on Monday and she decides not to bring up Luna unless he does, and for now he seems content to leave that topic alone.

"Come on," he says as he unlocks his car, glances around at the wet sidewalks, the droplets covering his windscreen. "The rain isn't going to stay away for long."

He's right. It isn't.

The party is everything she expects, and everything rubbing shoulders with the glitterati should be. Except there isn't too much in the way of glitterati. Maybe a few low-level celebrities and some even lower-level politicians at best.

It's in one of Smirnov's hotels in Manhattan; big and ostentatious, all sparkling crystal chandeliers and too bright lights, stuffy looking waiters in penguin suits serving up canapés on silver trays - and Foggy's arm tightens on hers when he sees some Iberico ham parcels heading their way.

"These little Spanish pigs only eat acorns and olives Karen," he whispers like it's a state secret. "And you can _taste_ it."

She grins at him, asks him how much time he spent googling that and the sheepish look on his face tells her everything she needs to know.

The only truly questionable choice Smirnov seems to have made is a band - complete with a long-haired stubbly front man - playing some classic rock and other less classic rock songs which they slowed down so the 80s and 90s cheese is not immediately recognisable, although if Frank were here he would claim that that is a bug and not a feature.

And she _doesn't_ imagine him standing by her side, his hand resting on her back and his body so close to hers she can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. She doesn't imagine what it would be like to see him in a suit again, nor how it would be to dance with him here, hold him close and have his fingers digging into her hips, his lips pressed to her ear. She _doesn't_ imagine any of that.

And Karen Page is a shitty liar, even to herself.

Next to her Foggy grabs a handful of his ham parcels and tries very hard not to stuff them all into his mouth at once. He almost succeeds.

And when she sniggers at him he gives her an attempt at a filthy look and starts pointing out a few people he knows: work colleagues, bosses, others he recognises from the guest list. Finally he nods to Smirnov's people: four tall men doing a bad job at hiding the fact that they're bodyguards, a petite brunette who is apparently Smirnov's main squeeze and some old man who is an adviser.

There's also a silent partner, Foggy says, but no one has seen or met her, which was partly one of the reasons for his firm politely deciding to disentangle themselves from this specific client.

He says he doesn't know too much of what actually went down as he dealt with a lot of the low-level stuff and wasn't really involved in client meetings. But through the grapevine it seems the powers that be were concerned about this secret woman for some reason and weren't too comfortable with the situation.

She flags that away. It's an interesting twist and one she thinks worth looking into. Silent partners in and of themselves are not weird. But for a firm like Foggy's to give up a client like Smirnov just because of that _is_ unusual. Which means someone somewhere either knows who she is and doesn't like it or doesn't know who she is and thinks that's too big a risk for the firm to take.

Foggy says they also found evidence in the last few days that Smirnov got a hell of a cash boost a few months ago but no one could trace the source, which was another point of concern. The odd thing was that didn't seem to be related to the silent partner.

"Heroin?" she asks. "Trafficking?"

Foggy shrugs. "If it was, it was so well laundered the Lord himself may have performed a miracle to clean it. Or that germaphobe boss of yours."

Another flag and she grabs a lonely Iberico ham parcel as a waiter walks by and pops it in her mouth before Foggy can make a claim on it - he's right, you _can_ taste the fucking acorns - and he glares at her, narrows his eyes and hands her a glass of red wine.

"What's the agenda for tonight?" she asks.

He shrugs.

"I think we schmooze for now, then we probably have to hear some speeches about how wonderful Smirnov is for Hell's Kitchen. He's going to talk about the theatre and the soup kitchen and the park. We will probably need to clap. Then he's going to tell us what part of the city he plans to buy and bulldoze next and then we get to eat. I don't think there's fireworks but there is some acrobatic _cirque de soleil_ shit during dinner. Afterwards there's dancing." He nods to the band. "All your favourite hits played so slow as to make them unidentifiable."

She laughs, sips her wine as he waves at some coworkers who she vaguely recalls from the last do of this kind - the night that ended on the roof with fire in the sky and Frank Castle solidifying his place in her heart… right before he broke it.

But that seems like it was decades ago and he won't do it again. He _won't_.

And briefly she can feel herself falling into one of those spirals, one of those Frank Castle fugues where he's too present in her thoughts and he distracts her with arbitrary musings when Foggy nudges her and inclines his head to one of the archways.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he says in her ear.

But she doesn't have to even look to know it's Matt. She's developed a kind of intuition where he's concerned and again she thinks that maybe he's not the only one with diluted superpowers, maybe she has some of her own - secrets he can't tell just by the smell of her skin or cadence of her voice.

She turns, sees him handing his coat to the concierge, his movements smooth, practiced and not for the first time she marvels at him and everything he can do, everything he shouldn't do. They could have been something once, once upon a time when he made her heart beat faster and her legs weak. But not now. Not anymore.

Matt looks good though; very, very good in a fitted black suit, crisp white shirt and slightly obnoxious cravat. But it's Elektra who steals the moment. Petite and yet somehow also statuesque, she stands at his side in a dress the colour of blood. It's long down to her ankles with a slit up the side to mid-thigh and gathered into a tight halter with rubies at her throat.

She looks amazing. They both do.

"I'm still winning in the suit stakes tonight," Foggy grumbles defensively and she nods. He is. He definitely is.

And even though she knows he can't see them she feels Matt's attention settle on her and Foggy, watches how he leans in close to say something to Elektra and how, in turn, her gaze also flickers to them.

To _her_. Very specifically to _her_.

She expects scrutiny - she knows what it feels like to be sized up, evaluated. Found lacking. But there's actually very little of that in the way Elektra is looking at her. Maybe some, maybe only a touch. Mostly there's something that looks a bit like relief and even more like opportunity. Something that isn't remotely malicious but instead almost _knowing_. And she can't shake the feeling that she's missed something. That if she just had a few minutes to think hard enough a piece of this strange puzzle would click into place. But whatever it is, it's evasive and slippery and moves just out of reach every time she thinks she has a handle on it.

And then Elektra looks away and it almost feels like being dismissed, if it were possible to be dismissed by someone who never admitted you into their presence in the first place. She turns to Matt and for a few seconds they talk, some nodding from him, a little frowning from her and then she links her arm through his and they start heading across the room to where Karen and Foggy are standing.

And next to her, under his breath, but loud enough for someone with bat ears like Matt to hear, Foggy starts to sing.

 _"You walked into to the party like you were walking onto a yacht,_  
 _Your hat strategically dipped below one eye,  
_ _Your scarf it was apricot..."_

She elbows him gently in the ribs.

"Hush. He'll hear you."

He gives her a sour, almost exasperated look and carries on.

 _"You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte  
_ _And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner, they'd be your partner..."_

She elbows him again and tells him to stop but he ignores her, and, if anything, gets louder as Matt and Elektra approach.

 _"You're so vain  
_ _You probably think this song is about you…"_

"Don't know about being able to watch myself gavotte," Matt says good-naturedly as he draws close, nods to his cane. "Not even sure anyone gavottes anymore either. We'd all look a little weird."

Foggy shrugs. "I'll have to work on it, change it up. Maybe something like 'you insist on wearing tight leather and that gets us all distraught'."

There's a moment when they're both so quiet she thinks she'd be able to hear a pin drop inside their little circle and then they each grin stupidly and clap each other on the back and it's not nearly as godawful as she thought it would be.

Elektra gives her a mild smile and she nods, gives her an equally mild one in return. It's ridiculous in the extreme but the two of them haven't actually ever officially been introduced despite the fact that they've somehow ended up in strangely intimate situations together a few times. Matt didn't seem too interested in explaining why she found Elektra in his bed, preferring to adopt the attitude that she should trust him because he is who he is. And maybe that would have made sense if he hadn't been lying about almost everything else but that wasn't really how things shook out. On some level she thinks maybe his feelings are still hurt by her reaction and truthfully she accepts she didn't handle things well, but neither did he and here they all are pretending they don't know each other but also that they kind of do and it just feels really fucked up.

Either way, Elektra doesn't seem too concerned about unfucking it - not that Karen thinks she should be - and whispers something to Matt before removing her arm from his and heading off in the direction of the bar. He barely seems to notice and Karen finds that disconcerting somehow.

But she doesn't have time to consider it because his attention is on her and suddenly he's moving in, filling her space and kissing her gently on each cheek. He smells of cologne, something fresh and clean, a hint of sandalwood and cinnamon. He doesn't linger but says her name softly and touches her elbow with a familiarity she's not really sure they have anymore.

"It's been a while," he says.

It hasn't. Not really. It's not like they saw each other much after his Big Reveal, whether by fate or design or both, but seeing each other twice in ten days is hardly "a while" by any reasonable standards.

"Not that long," she says but he ignores it.

"Is everything alright with you Karen? I wanted to call after..." He trails off and she knows he's talking about the Friday before last - the night he smelled the blood in her car and she made him go home so she could save Frank Castle's life. The night she _did_ save Frank Castle's life.

"I'm fine. Everything is fine," she says and she thinks that she could even be telling the truth. Everything really is as close to an approximation of "fine" as it's been in a while.

"Are you sure?" he asks and he still hasn't let go of her arm. "If you need me… anything..."

There's a hint of something in his voice. Something that belies his smoothness, something that's almost begging her to allow him to be included, not be frozen out anymore. And part of her genuinely wants to give him that; give _them_ that chance. Not to find out what they could have had - that ship sailed a long time ago - but maybe to recapture some of that gentle friendship they once shared.

But she looks at him, at his face, at the place where he's holding her arm, and she's not sure he can do that. Not sure he wants to.

"Karen…"

"I know where you are. Thank you Matt," she interrupts and he looks at her like she's slapped him. But then he nods and seemingly lets it go, even if she doesn't believe it will be for long.

And suddenly the atmosphere is almost unbearably strained and she has to fight the desire to look down at her shoes, to walk away. It kills her a little that things are like this now - that the water is still flowing toxic and polluted under the bridge between them all - and she realises she has no idea how they're going to get through another five minutes of this, let alone an entire night. And then Elektra appears again at Matt's side with two glasses of wine and she takes a long look at the three of them: Foggy's worried face, Karen's frown and finally Matt's hand where it rests on her arm.

"Oh come on," she says and her voice is low, sultry, and Karen can't help but see the way Matt responds to it - a quick jerk of the head and a small smile on his lips, the way he releases her suddenly and almost guiltily. "We all know this is awkward as fuck, let's not get ourselves down on something as ridiculous as some shared saliva."

For a second there's shocked silence as they all look at her and she thinks Matt will say something, try and smooth it over. But Foggy beats him to it and starts to sing again.

" _Well I heard you went up to Saratoga and your horse naturally won,_  
 _Then you flew your lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun,  
_ _You're where you should be all the time and when you're not you're with some underworld spy or the wife of a good friend…_ "

Elektra laughs and Karen snorts and the horrible mood breaks and briefly Karen lets herself hope this could one day be easier. That maybe there's a chance that they could all let bygones be bygones and find some kind of camaraderie again. In whatever form it might take.

And after that they talk. Reasonably. About important things. No petty jealousies and past mistakes. They talk about Smirnov and how this feels no different from Fisk, how he's managed to step smoothly and easily into the void that was left. And how he's put a more charming veneer on it. He's handsome and amenable, friendly in a way Fisk didn't have in him. He's not awkward and no one can dig up any dirt on him. And even this silent partner might not be anything. It's not a crime to be private, not a crime to hide all your contacts and business dealings.

That's when she notices a flicker in Elektra's eyes - it's fleeting but it's there and Karen tilts her head, watches her. And Elektra catches her gaze, nods almost imperceptibly and immediately looks away, laughs at one of Foggy's jokes and no one is any the wiser.

And then Matt is tapping her arm, asking her if the invitation was extended to the press too and if Ellison is somewhere here and she doesn't like the way he asks - as if him and "Mitchell" go way back when in fact the number of times they've met could be counted on one hand. It's not a big thing, not at all but she finds it presumptuous. Awkward.

"No," she says. "Ellison thinks Alexei is the best thing to happen to Hell's Kitchen since antibacterial handwash and no amount of talking will change his mind until he sees cold, hard proof that he's up to no good."

Matt nods thoughtfully, fiddles with his cane.

"I'm working on it. Elektra too. We've almost got something." he says softly. "As soon as I do I'll let you know, tell you everything. You can break the story Karen."

He makes it sound like he's her little personal servant. Like she's sent him on this mission and he's doing it to please her. To _help_ her. And she doesn't like it. She doesn't like it at all.

She's about to tell him he's doesn't need to do that - not for her, not for whatever misguided reason he might have - when she notices the shadow over Elektra's face, a sudden flare of something that could be disappointment, but looks more like fear.

And then the bell rings indicating that they all need to sit for the meal and it's not without some relief that Karen finds herself and Foggy sitting at a table with his colleagues and not with Matt and Elektra, who seem to be with some corporate suits on the far side of the room.

"Why is Elektra here again?" she asks as Foggy adjusts his serviette across his lap, takes a swig of wine.

He shrugs. "Just saw her name on the guest list is all, figured she has some ties to the rich and famous. Or just the rich."

"But why Smirnov?"

"I don't know what kind of circles rich people move in Karen. Maybe they all have a dollar sign on their heads that you can only see when your bank balance hits a certain number and when you do you get to join the secret club."

"Don't you think it's just a little odd though?" she pushes and he shrugs again.

"She's a socialite. She's got a big trust fund from daddy and she looks great in Chanel. I don't think it's all that weird."

He looks over to a beautiful but random redhead in a clingy navy dress.

"Why is _she_ here? She doesn't work for us or him. She the face of some kind of superfood diet and she's had her picture in the papers a few times and lives in a penthouse in Manhattan." He reaches for his wine again, chugs it and indicates to a passing waiter he wants another. "Smirnov likes rich, beautiful people Karen. Elektra ticks both boxes."

She huffs. She guesses he has a point but then she has that sixth sense that Ellison is always banging on about and something tells her there's more to this. Something tells her that despite his apparent appreciation of Smirnov's work, Ellison would feel it too.

She's going to trust her gut. It hasn't failed her yet.

"Frank back yet?" Foggy asks suddenly and it takes a few seconds to parse his words, claw her way out of her thoughts and back into the world.

"No, no not yet."

"Stupid question," he says. "If he was you'd be home, fucking like bunnies."

"Oh come on Foggy," she says but she can feel her face turning hot and a slick surge between her thighs at the very thought.

"No, it's not me that needs to come on," he says. "It's you… seriously. Have you slept with him yet?"

He says every word very clearly and slowly as if he's placing a full point after each one and she's doubly relieved Matt and Elektra are on the other side of the room.

"No," she says and she hates that she doesn't care that it's none of his business. And that she doesn't mind sharing with him.

"Well get on that. You're wasting daylight here."

"Foggy…"

"No, Jesus. I saw him on Monday - the way he looked at you. I'm not gonna say I don't have my reservations but fucking hell, it'll do you both good. I mean it's a disaster in the long run, but seriously... You. Need. To. Get. Laid." He stops, considers for a moment. "He does too."

She kicks him under the table, spiky heel connecting hard with his shin and he yelps and then chuckles.

"You are terrible." She tries to inject some mock anger into her voice but she can't even do that. There's very little Foggy could do or say that she'd consider out of line and he knows it too.

"Hey, I'm just looking out for everyone. More orgasms mean happier people. Actually, I'm pretty sure the mobster community would send you a personal thank you if you gave Frank a few. Could put him in a better mood…"

She kicks him again, is about to tell him he's being an ass, when the lights dim and the room goes quiet.

There's a few minutes when nothing happens, save for a few whispers and some strange lighting changes and then Smirnov walks up to stand next to the band at the podium.

Again she's struck by how disgustingly good looking he is. Hair wavy and blond, eyes ridiculously green. Square jaw, designer stubble and a body honed by hours in the gym. He scores an easy eleven on the Prince Charming radar, maybe a twelve. He would have been the type that her teenage self would have swooned over, stapled his pictures over her wall. Now all she feels is uncertain and slightly disconcerted, his good looks doing nothing to offset the doubts she has about him.

The crowd claps and he waves, flashes his perfect teeth. He doesn't go as far as pointing out individuals like some kind of has been rockstar but the effect is much the same. He waits a few minutes for quiet, grinning and looking away every time a new round of applause starts. It's a cultivated shyness. It's meant to appeal, make him seem human, affable. And when he speaks eventually his voice is as fake as the rest of him; slight accent, but not nearly enough for someone who apparently never left Moscow before the age of 30.

He starts by thanking everyone for coming. He talks about the honour of being here and the amazing support he has, how he couldn't have done it without the good people of Hell's Kitchen and New York and how he's looking forward to continuing his work with them. He thanks a few people by name, even some of the lawyers at Foggy's firm and talks briefly about how sorry he is that they're parting ways.

Then he starts outlining his future plans and she's not surprised to hear few of them include any community involvement. He's done the soup kitchen and the sports field and he's moving onto the bigger things. And none of this surprises her. Of course he doesn't say it like that. He couches it in terms of growth and trickle-down economics. He talks about office blocks replacing the rundown apartments on 27th and a shopping mall to replace the failing school on 14th. And, when a small nervous titter runs through the crowd, he holds up his hands and smiles and assures everyone that the children there will be looked after and placed in better, safer schools. And he does it with such conviction that for a second even she believes him.

He's clever. He's so very clever and this is all so very calculated. Buy up the city piece by piece. Start small and helpful. Give people the things they need. Fix what's broken and then when they're lulled into a false sense of security, ask for more. Take that, change it too. In the end people will be begging to give their lives away.

And he's so much better at it than Fisk. So incredibly smooth. None of the anxiety and latent rage that people can sense even if they can't see. None of the overcompensation for a lack of looks or charm. It's like he's been specifically groomed for the part.

And that's something else she flags even though she's not sure why.

He finishes with a few well-placed jokes, some self-deprecating humour and invites anyone to share any concerns they may have over social media or a comments box in the lobby. And finally he thanks his investors, waxes a bit lyrical about how he couldn't have done it without their generosity and his gaze flickers to the far side of the room before he tells everyone to enjoy the evening and goes to take his place at the main table.

And then the band starts playing again and the waiters start bringing out the entrees and it's not long before everyone has seemingly forgotten the speech and why they're here and is distracted by taleggio cheese and bresaola that probably costs more than her and Foggy's combined rent. And as she tastes it, she has to admit is probably worth it.

They make small talk with some of Foggy's colleagues, an animated woman from Spain called Vicky and a dour old man who seems overly concerned about the state of garbage collection in the Kitchen. And Foggy tells her later that that is Brent and they think he's about 300 years old and you don't want to bump into him at the water cooler unless you have a lot of time to debate council services and ways to improve them.

The acrobats start as the main course is being served. They're amazing and excessive and despite herself Karen finds she's enjoying them, holding her breath as they fly through the air, as they somersault and tumble and balance in ways no human was made to do.

"That's how Marci and I wake up in the morning," Foggy comments dryly as they watch a woman get spun on one finger high above her partner's head. "Couple of rounds of that and you're ready for the day. What about you and Frank?"

She kicks him again but she laughs all the same and he does too.

"Great for the joints," he adds as he takes a bite of some sesame-encrusted tuna and makes a face like he's died and gone to heaven. "But then I guess so is braining drug dealers."

"Come on Foggy."

He huffs. "It's just hilarious that we're sitting here with so many reservations about someone who is at first glance a philanthropist and yet we've ascribed a "Frank will be Frank" status to well, Frank."

"You sound like Ellison now."

He shrugs. "Maybe I do. You have to admit he has a point."

Yeah she does.

"Will Ellison actually publish something if anything turns up here?" Foggy indicates vaguely around the room.

"He'll publish. It just needs to be airtight," She pushes her fork into the middle of her plate. "Or else I need to interview Daredevil."

Foggy nearly chokes on his tuna. "What?"

"Yeah," she says. "He wants an exclusive to put on the front page. I've countered with this."

"Well I'm sure _Daredevil_ will be very disappointed to hear that…"

She purses her lips, rolls her eyes and glances over to Matt's table.

But he's not there, the seat next to Elektra empty. She's not alone though. Smirnov is standing with his hands on the back of her chair, leaning down low and talking in her ear and she's playing with her hair, a little knowing smile on her face.

And for the life of her Karen can't figure this out. Sure it's possible that Elektra knows him from way back when but that's highly unlikely, and sure it's possible Foggy is right and Smirnov just likes rich, beautiful socialites and that's all there is to it but that seems like a stretch.

No, she's pretty sure there's more to this than meets the eye, that Elektra is holding some trump cards and it's very possible that finding out what's going on with her is half the battle won.

And all she needs to do is figure out a way to get Elektra to show them to her.

It turns out she doesn't have to.

She's alone in the ladies bathroom, retouching her lipstick by the dim light of tea candles - because apparently it makes total sense to add a romantic atmosphere to semi-public bathrooms - when the door swings open and Elektra walks in; a swish of shadowed red cloth and glittering jewels, eyes that are deep and intense, worried even, and totally at odds with the amused smile on her face.

This is not a coincidence, not at all and she looks Karen up and down for a good few seconds before she glances to the toilet stalls, tilting her head to see if she can see any feet sticking out from under the doors.

There's nobody here though. Nobody but them, because it was always going to come to this. It almost feels like it had to.

"We haven't been formally introduced," Elektra's accent is heavy but her tone is dangerously light and she doesn't look at Karen, instead choosing to scrutinise the elaborate tigerlily arrangements hanging from the walls and ceilings.

Karen slides her lipstick into her purse, straightens. "We haven't."

Elektra makes a small dry sound in the back of her throat like she's amused by this. And maybe she should be. They're adults. They both know it's ridiculous.

"They're probably worried we're going to scratch each other's eyes out. Ripped clothes, pulled hair. They wouldn't know whether to stop us or watch," Elektra sighs, touches one of the lower lilies, rubs the pollen between her fingers. "That's the problem with men. They never know if they're fantasising about rescues or revenge. Can't tell the difference."

Karen regards her for a moment. "Maybe you should start hanging out with better men."

And Elektra laughs, maybe a little too long and a little too loud for the admittedly low level comeback.

"Have _you_ Karen?" she asks. "Have _you_ started hanging out with better men?"

Her voice is airy but the question is solid, demanding and Karen stays quiet. She might be a crappy liar and Ellison might be right about her game face, but filling uncomfortable silences has never been among the things she's felt compelled to do.

So she doesn't. She waits and she listens to the sounds of the party outside. The _oohs_ and _ahhs_ as the acrobats continue their performance, the steady thud of the bass, the sound of the waiters' voices as they walk by.

If she doesn't look away for Frank Castle it borders on ludicrous that she'd do it for Elektra Natchios. And somehow Elektra seems to know it and doesn't push.

Instead she sighs dramatically and leans back against the tiles and even though this is a farce, a cultivated persona, there's an infinitesimally small moment when Karen sees her guard go down. It's in the way her shoulders sag, the way she closes her eyes and swallows briefly before she opens them again. She looks so incredibly vulnerable - so incredibly different from the flirtatious woman she just saw with Smirnov, the sultry femme fatale she saw earlier with Matt, that Karen almost feels blindsided.

And then it's gone.

"This party is _so_ dull." And there she is again. The poor little rich girl. The snob. The act.

She pushes herself away from the wall, takes a step closer to Karen and then just when it seems she's about to get right up in her face, she turns, looks at herself in the mirror, runs a finger along the bottom of her mouth as she gets rid of some imaginary lipstick.

"Did you want something?" Karen asks.

Elektra tilts her head without looking away from her reflection and seems to consider the question.

"We all want something…" She grabs a tissue and blots underneath her eye at an equally imaginary smudge of mascara, and then turns slowly to look over her shoulder, ruby earrings catching the candlelight, making them glitter like blood under the full moon. "I want him. He wants you… and you… what do _you_ want Karen?"

Her tone isn't harsh. There's an edge to it, yes, a lilt that sounds like baiting, daring, but it's mild. Gentle. Dangerously friendly.

And Karen realises she has two options. She can stand here and indulge this and be swatted around like a wounded moth having a bad encounter with a bored cat or she can call Elektra's bluff and leave. She's pretty sure she knows which way it'll go but even if she misjudges this horribly it means she gets to go back to her table and her dessert before the longing in Foggy's eye gets too much and her cheesecake disappears. So she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and takes a step towards the door.

She didn't misjudge. She didn't misjudge at all.

Because Elektra straightens, quick as a flash, and blocks her way, one hand pushing firmly against the door handle, the other on her own hip like she's pissed Karen would dare think of leaving before she's said what she needs to say.

And then she narrows her eyes like she's looking for something - looking for something she's not really convinced she's going to find. It _could_ just be the standard mean girl cliché, the nonsensical and largely exaggerated rivalry of women measure each other up and ask the unanswerable question: what does she have that I don't?

And yet… and yet Karen doesn't think so. As much as Elektra's playing a part, Karen is doubtful she feels any true sense of competition. Which means it's something else.

Something more important. Something more dangerous.

And maybe she _should_ be a little concerned, maybe even scared. Elektra gets what she wants - she _always_ gets what she wants - and it's a solid bet she has a _sai_ or two in her garters. But she finds she's calm, maybe even too calm, maybe even a little tired of the antics and the shenanigans, the affected vapidity.

"Thought we weren't gonna have that cat fight?" she says but Elektra's not smiling. She's not exactly scowling either though. In fact she looks unsure, reticent. Almost like she thought this was a good idea and is now wishing she could take it back. And that strange vulnerability is there again and this time it stays.

"I…," she stops, bites her lip and takes a deep breath, a look on her face like she's hating every second of this. "I tried to call you… but then I heard you were going to be here…"

She cuts herself off, looks away, lifting her fingers from the door handle, before taking a deep breath. "I… I need your help."

 _Okay…_

Okay so _this_ is unexpected. This is entirely not how Karen anticipated this, or any, conversation with Elektra going. Sure, it wasn't hard to see that something was up and sure, she let her brain explore the various possibilities in the brief time she's had to think on it. And sure, it seemed likely that Elektra knew more than any of them, that she had some inroads with Smirnov, that she was playing a game. But there was also the possibility that it was none of these things and everything could be explained away innocently and succinctly.

But this? This doesn't make any sense. It doesn't make sense as a trap or as a genuine request. Because even if Elektra genuinely has no ulterior motives and everything she is saying is on the level then she has no idea how she, Karen Page - underqualified reporter with little cash to spare and even fewer skills - could possibly help anyone. Let alone Elektra Natchios.

Because she can't. And it's nothing short of insane to think she can.

And then Elektra kind of crumbles a bit. The daddy's girl act suddenly becoming too hard to maintain, the haughty snob just too much effort, and her face softens as she steps out of Karen's way, leans against the wall again and pinches the bridge of her nose. She looks lost, overwhelmed. Defeated.

It's weird and it's disconcerting and Karen has no idea what to do or if doing something is even a requirement at this point. So she waits, lets her gaze flicker over the gleaming marble tiles, the small powder room off to the side, the sweet smelling arrangements of lilies.

And when Elektra eventually speaks her voice is cracked and so low that Karen has to strain to hear.

"Matthew ... he's in over his head. _Way_ over his head. And..." she pauses and looks around the room as if she searching for something to distract her before taking a deep breath, grinding her teeth. "And I can't save him."

Her words have a horrible pulse to them and for a moment Karen does nothing but feel the weight of the them in the air; their sounds and shapes, from the faintest outlines to the grit of their centre. And then, before she even realises she's doing it, she starts to pick them apart, formulate thoughts, vague questions, counters. Because her brain won't let her accept it. Because Elektra _must_ be wrong. Because she _has_ to be.

Except she isn't. Something in her tone makes that clear as day. Something in how hard this is for her to say, how the words seem to have to fight their way out of her mouth and into the world. How Karen doesn't need to even wonder if this is the first time Elektra's voiced them and consequently the first time she's admitted them - to herself or anyone else.

There's no point arguing or debating this. It's God's honest truth and doing anything but accepting it is a waste of time and they both know it.

"He's up in Smirnov's suite now, sniffing around for something. He doesn't even have a real plan, but he's there…" Elektra sighs, runs a hand through her hair. "Fighting the good fight."

"What's he looking for?" Karen asks and she rolls her eyes.

"Oh I don't know. Who the silent partner is, who the investors are," she glances at Karen and her eyes flash dangerously. "True love."

Karen ignores the dig. "But you _do_ know don't you? You know what he would find."

And that smug smile suddenly makes a brief reappearance. "I do. And it would make _all_ the papers."

It's another taunt and also a dangled carrot but she's not going to rise to either. Elektra will tell her what she wants to know - they wouldn't be here otherwise.

"Matthew's sweet and perceptive but he doesn't really get people. He's idealistic and sometimes a little naive and he's been obsessed with this thing since that night you were taken, the night the Punisher…" She pauses meaningfully and looks Karen straight in the eye. "... showed up at that warehouse and you disappeared with him."

She seems to consider this for a second and then her tone changes and that little smile is back. "Had us up all night searching for the two of you. Heard you only got back the next day. Him, you… a dog. Heard you were wearing his clothes too."

No looking away. She won't do it, even if the mention of Frank and that night and all the things that happened after make her want to. Let Elektra think whatever she wants. It couldn't be more intimate than the truth anyway.

But Elektra doesn't linger, apparently deciding her story is more important than making Karen uncomfortable.

"Matthew's been running the city raw trying to find out what's going on. Got himself so hopelessly beat up about a little while ago I'm not sure how he's still alive… but you knew about that didn't you? You were there."

She nods. It's not like it needs to be a secret. She _was_ there. And she held him while Claire stitched him up. And he was delirious and saying things he didn't mean.

And others he did.

She still doesn't know which category is easier to accept.

"He took it easy for a while after but he didn't stop. I don't know if this is a personal crusade, if it's more about Smirnov and less about you or what. I don't know. But he's going to kill himself trying to solve it. Trying to end it."

She stops, takes a breath. "And I can't ... I _won't_ let that happen. Not for Hell's Kitchen and not for you."

And that's fair enough. More than fair enough. And suddenly despite everything she wonders if she's seeing a glimpse of her own future with Frank. Endless worrying that his obsession is going to drive him too far and that one day she's not going to be able to save him and it really will be goodbye. One day it will be the end and she won't be able to save him. Claire won't be able to pull him back together.

They might not lie to each other but that doesn't mean she always likes the truth.

But that's another worry for another day.

"So why don't you tell Matt what you know?" Karen asks. "Save him some of the trouble?"

Elektra eyes her her suspiciously for a good few seconds and then shrugs as if Karen's opinion is of little consequence. And truthfully, it probably is.

"You know the difference between work and busy work?" she asks but doesn't wait for an answer. "While he's searching for shitty information like who's funding this and why the Yakuza are involved, he's not out there going up against them. I'm trying to keep him busy while I figure this damn mess out."

It's a good answer but it's also not the whole answer, not the whole truth either. And she wasn't lying when she told Ellison she has a knack for getting people to tell her things they weren't planning on divulging.

"What else?"

For a second Elektra almost looks impressed, like she didn't expect that level of shrewdness or insight.

"If he knew who the silent partner is, it would only make things worse. It would only intensify his desire to end it." She glances around the bathroom again. "I'm stalling but I can't do this for long. He's impatient and what we saw at the warehouse the night you were taken was bad enough even after Frank thinned out the crowd and half of them started chasing after you. He can't go up against those odds alone. Not again. Not even with me and Stick to back him up. He will die Karen."

She says it with such finality Karen almost thinks it's a done deal, that there's simply no way to change the course of fate and one day in the not too distant future she's going to be crying over Matthew Murdock's grave. And she wants to fight it, to find a place she can put that information where it doesn't seem so overwhelming, or so true. But there is nowhere for it to go. It just _is_ and it sits like a cold hard stone in the pit of her stomach.

She's not surprised by how fragile her voice is when she speaks and the look in Elektra's eyes tells her that they've found some middle ground, that for this at least they're on the same side.

"What can I do?" she asks. "I'll talk to him but he won't listen to me. You know that."

Elektra nods. "He doesn't listen to me and I've been there. I've seen the manpower they have. And it's no good trying to put out that torch he's carrying for you. Believe me, I've tried."

And there's a part of her that feels genuinely ashamed at this even if she doesn't know why. She's never honestly sat down and thought about how Matt feels about her and she resents that she needs to do it now. It's not her responsibility. And yet somehow it is.

Somehow both him and Elektra are forcing it to be.

"So what do you want me to do? If he won't listen to me and he won't listen to you…"

"You know where Frank Castle is." Elektra interrupts and her mouth quirks on the one side, that little knowing smile reappearing. "No matter how sweet and innocent you look with those Bambi eyes, there's something very dark about you, something that would keep a man like Frank … close."

There's a lot of meaning behind Elektra's words but she pushes that aside for now, focuses on the easy bits.

"What does Frank have to do with this?"

"Oh nothing," Elektra says airily, slipping back into her heiress act again before giving Karen a long, hard look. "Everything."

And Karen rolls her eyes, exasperated "Elektra, I don't have time for this shit."

Another amused smile and then she talks.

"Frank's been involved in this from the start. The second he decided to turn up at that warehouse for you he made his stance on the whole affair known. I know that. Matthew knows that. And _they_ know that. In fact they were counting on that," She smiles. "Kidnap Karen Page and all the vigilantes come running. Like shooting fish in a barrel."

"Elektra…"

"Okay, okay. I know Frank must have done some investigating of his own too. Maybe he knows something we don't. Or knows someone who does."

Karen almost blurts out that he doesn't, that she asked and nothing came of it except some wounded feelings and the cold shoulder for a few days, but she stays quiet.

"Either way I think Matthew will listen to him. He's against everything Frank stands for but he respects him. He _gets_ it. It might sound insane but Matthew trusts him. And maybe Frank can talk some sense into him, maybe they can come up with a plan that doesn't involve taking on the Yakuza and the Russian mafia all at once with nothing but a couple of roundhouse kicks and two Japanese blades I'm not allowed to use."

And Karen has to laugh.

"I never thought I'd see the day when anyone would ask Frank to bring temperance to a situation."

But Elektra doesn't smile.

"Despite this fantasy the media created around Frank Castle being unhinged and out of control, I don't think he does anything half...," she pauses, and Karen doesn't miss the flash in her eyes. "...cocked."

Another long, calculated silence and then she continues.

"If he can't talk some sense into Matthew then at least he will have back up. Better than what I can provide anyway. And Frank might be trigger happy but I'd trust him to have a better strategy than to go in all guns blazing which is basically what Matthew's doing, just without the guns. Either way I'd feel better just knowing he was there, just having input from someone who knows the score and isn't afraid to make the hard choices."

She almost looks relieved as she stops talking - now that the worst part is over and her feelings and shortcomings are out there in the world. And, like a freight train, it hits Karen that Elektra is lonely. Lonely and scared and frustrated - and, more than anything, worried about the man she loves. And maybe they aren't all that different. Maybe they're not different at all. And she knows this isn't what she should be taking away from this conversation. It isn't what she should be focusing on and Elektra would probably be incredibly scornful of it if she were to say anything, but she can't help it. This is the girl who has everything. Everything but everything. And it's destroying her.

She'll help. She'll do any damn thing she can to make sure Matt is safe and unharmed. Not just for him but for all the people he has who care about him even when it's hard. Even when he doesn't deserve it.

"Frank's out of town right now. I don't know when he'll be back," she says gently. "But when he is I'll speak to him, ask him to come and see you.

"But Elektra, he's just recovered from some really bad injuries … I don't want him getting any more."

Elektra nods, closes her eyes briefly. "Makes two of us. Two of us in exactly the same situation."

And this isn't a dig. In fact she doesn't even think Elektra fully comprehends what she just said. Still she's right. Even if she doesn't know how right.

They're both quiet for a while and the air is heavy, the smell of the lilies too sickly sweet and worse when mixed with the melting candle wax. It's dark and oppressive and she wants to leave but she knows this conversation isn't over.

"Matthew wants to go and investigate a lead on Monday - he thinks something is going down at that warehouse on eleventh, but that's because I gave him the wrong day." Elektra pauses. "I just can't have him going in there when pretty much the entire mob is waiting. It's suicide."

"What's supposed to be happening?"

Elektra answers with a frustrated sigh. "I don't know yet. It's some delivery for the Yakuza. But it's actually happening on Sunday when Matthew will be _far_ away from any warehouses in Hell's Kitchen. So really, it's not urgent just yet but still anytime before that would be great."

"I'll tell Frank when I see him."

And when she says thank you, Elektra sounds like she genuinely means it, the haughty daddy's girl is gone and all that's left is her. Stripped. Vulnerable.

And then she smiles wryly.

"It kills me to ask you this you know? To ask _you_."

"Why?"

Elektra blinks, looks away.

"Because you're you. And you're everything he wants. The pretty blonde lady with the Disney eyes that he needs to protect and show off," she swallows heavily. "And the funny thing is that's not you at all. And he doesn't know it."

And Karen has an overwhelming desire to tell her about Frank, confess that there's someone else and her and Matt are nothing more than friends, if that. But it's not hard to see that isn't what Elektra needs or wants to hear. She doesn't want Matt on Karen's terms. She wants him on her own. No victory by default, even if no one else is playing the game.

So she stays quiet, leaves Elektra with her thoughts, considers some of her own: how they all got here; how intertwined their lives are; how this back and forth needs to stop.

And finally, whether she can trust what Elektra is saying. So she decides to test it.

"How do you know all this? How do you know Smirnov?"

Elektra laughs. "I'm an investor. A big investor. _The_ big investor."

"Why?"

"Because I have a lot of money and I'm bored and this is the kind of shit bored rich girls do." And she's hedging and Karen wonders why, what she's so loathe to admit to. She's about to press but Elektra takes a breath and starts to speak again.

"I invested under the sole condition of having all the financials released to me. All of them. Not this shit they give their lawyers. If they get a cent off Russian caviar I know about it, if a little old lady with blue-tinted hair donates a dollar I know about it. If Alexei picks up a dime off the sidewalk I know about it.

"And just FYI, that school… no plans to actually move the kids anywhere. In fact there are plans to close three more he didn't mention. Those apartment blocks… there's no rehoming scheme. Oh and if Frank needs any convincing, he's buying up that animal shelter on 8th too. So some stray dogs are gonna be out of a place to sleep too."

Karen nods. This isn't surprising really. The scale maybe and the ambition, but the bare bones facts - someone coming in and creating their own little empire out of Hell's Kitchen at the expense of the poorest members of the community - is no real shock.

"And if you want to know how they fund it," Elektra continues. "Well drug trafficking, human trafficking. The Yakuza is still looking for the Black Sky and is willing to pay a lot for any information on it."

"So if you know all this, how come you don't know what's going on at the warehouse on Sunday?"

Elektra shrugs. "I'm working on it - I only found out a few days ago. But that's the Yakuza. And they keep their finances separate. Right now it's sitting on the balance sheet as "goods for delivery" but I have yet to find out what those goods are, although I can imagine. So it's _something_ but not something I can really demand to know without setting off a whole bunch of alarms… besides that's not why I invested."

"No…" and it seems so clear now. "You invested to find out who the silent partner is. You did that for Matt."

And for a second Elektra looks almost embarrassed.

"Sad isn't it?" She says. "But yes. I did. I paid a lot of money for information I'm hiding from him… so I could stay one step ahead and not watch him crash and burn."

"So who is the silent partner?"

"You keep saying that Karen, like you haven't realised that Smirnov is about as important in this whole thing as any one of those stuffed shirts outside. He's a pretty face - a pretty face propped up on someone else's money."

Elektra waits a few seconds before continuing.

"It's Vanessa Marianna, Karen. Buying back the city for the man she loves and if she does we're all going to pay dearly."

When she gets back to the table the acrobats are gone, along with her cheesecake and all that's left are couples tentatively taking to the dance floor and Foggy's guilty expression.

"They were clearing everything away," he says defensively. "It would be in the bottom of a garbage chute by now."

She grins at him. "That's okay."

"What the hell were you doing in there anyway? You were gone for ages."

He looks so good and he's so sweet and she can see that the idea of any real trouble hasn't even entered his head and the last thing she wants to do is worry him, ruin the evening for him. But she can't lie to him. She won't be another of his friends to keep the truth from him, to cast him adrift and pretend it's for his own good. She knows how much she hates it when people do that to her. She won't do it to him.

She glances at the table; Vicky and Brent are still there and Brent seems to have roped the superfood woman into some conversation on recycling collections.

"Dance with me," she says and Foggy nods wordlessly and follows her to the floor, takes her hand.

The band is playing some inordinately slow version of _Unchain My Heart_ , which is already slow to start off with, so Karen leans in close and gives Foggy an abridged version of her conversation with Elektra. He listens mostly, asks one or two questions and she can see the wheels in his head turning as things fall into place and this whole stupid mess starts making sense. When she tells him about Frank she's surprised that he nods, says it's a good idea, that he hopes Frank gets back soon and can help out. And she hates what this is doing to him, how she can see how disturbed he is. And she also hates how he tries to be strong about it, not show her how he's really feeling.

"I want to say it's all going to be okay," she says. "I do, but I don't want to lie to you."

He smiles at her, tightens his arm at her waist.

"I appreciate that Karen," she sighs deeply. "Matt's bitten off more than he can chew and he doesn't even know."

"Yeah."

"I think I'm going to have a heart attack and die from that surprise."

He deadpans it again and even though she knows how worried he is, she appreciates the attempt at levity.

She snorts, shakes her head. "After two slices of that cheesecake, you just might."

He looks sheepish. "Three. Brent didn't want his and I thought since my date deserted me and left me to listen to the wonders of waste disposal I could treat myself."

She chuckles, and then on a whim or just because he's the best fucking person on Earth she pulls him into a hug. And she hopes that he gets it, that he realises this isn't just about her loving his goofy side or finding him amusing. This is also to let him know that whatever happens, she'll be there for him. That somehow, the two of them will hold it together no matter what this bitch-universe throws at either of them. She loves him so much that sometimes she wonders at how empty her life before she knew him, before she had a friend like him.

And she knows what it was like and it isn't worth thinking about.

"You should always treat yourself," she tells him, trying to keep the mood up.

"It was good cheesecake," he says sagely and she nods.

"It was."

"Yes and speaking of cheesecake…"

The song has stopped and the next is yet to start and Foggy's voice is loud, louder than it should be and she looks up to see Matt approaching them across the dance floor.

"Are you dead set on spending the night trying to get a rise out of him?" she asks.

"Nah, I think you do that all on your own," he says cheekily and when she glares at him he holds up his hands in mock surrender."Come on Karen. The food is gourmet, the wine is French and for tonight I look almost as good as Frank Castle in a suit."

"As good," she assures him.

"Either way," he says and she can almost see him preening. "I'm on fire."

"Yeah, I might need to extinguish you. Get your clothes covered in that white foam."

"Don't joke about the suit Karen."

And then Matt is there, asking Foggy if he can cut in, just for a moment, just because he hasn't spoken to Karen in so long. And Foggy defers to her, gives her a long, hard look and she loves him for it.

"It's okay," she says although she's not sure if that's a lie or not because part of this doesn't feel okay, doesn't feel right. But then she sees the way Matt's face lights up and she knows there's no going back. Foggy sees it too and his expression is dubious but she gives him a quick nod and he touches her elbow, tells her they'll finish talking later and walks away.

Then it's just her and Matt and he slips his arm around her, takes her hand and leads her expertly around the dance floor while the band does its best at some approximation of _Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?_

And she can't help but think of the last time she danced. On the roof with fire in the sky, spinning spinning spinning until she got giddy and Frank Castle's laugh ringing in her ears as he caught her around the waist and dragged her close. The smell of him ... the _feel_ of him steadfast and solid against her. The gooseflesh that covered her body and had nothing to do with the cold.

What she said after.

 _(I know)_

Because oh god, she does. She _does_.

"I told you wanted to call," Matt is saying and she has to force herself back into the present. "But I didn't want to intrude… after your birthday..."

She doesn't say anything. She's not one for secrets even if sometimes it feels like she has too many to bear, even if it feels like the enormous parts of her life that shaped and moulded her all need to be kept hidden. Still she hates them. But then again, this isn't a secret as such. It's something that is not Matt's business.

"I guess I just want to be sure you're okay."

And she smiles, softens a little and lifts her hand from his shoulder to his chin, tilts his face towards her.

"I'm here Matt. I'm fine. Honestly."

He nods slowly and his hand on her back twitches slightly and presses into her skin.

"There was blood in your car."

"And it's gone now."

And she can see he's dying to ask more, that he's fighting with himself to stay quiet about it, that every second since that night has been torture for him. But he bites it back down.

"Karen you know you can talk to me. You can come to me. With anything. It doesn't matter what it is. I won't judge."

She wonders if it's still a lie when you don't know you're lying. Because he is. It's probably the biggest lie he's ever told her. And he has no idea.

"There's nothing Matt, really."

He looks dubious and she guesses he probably has every right to suspect that she's not being completely honest with him but he doesn't comment on it.

"I'm going to find out what's going on with Smirnov," he says. "and I'll tell you first. As soon as I do you'll have the story."

"You don't need to do that Matt."

But he does. She knows he does. It's part of that idealism that drives him. While it would be incorrect to say Frank is solely motivated by making every scumbag in Hell's Kitchen pay for their very existence in blood and pain, his drive isn't an abstract one. It's tangible. Real. One less rapist means one less rapist. One less mobster means one less mobster. It's a step-by-step process that he works through on a case-by-case basis and is happy if in the end all his work just adds up to the sum of its parts.

Matt on the other hand wants it to be more. He wants to send messages, make gestures that inspire hope. Give people faith in themselves and each other.

It's noble. She can't deny that. She also has to wonder how pragmatic it is. Fighting the universe on its terms never worked out well for anyone.

"Maybe when this is all over, we can grab a drink…"

She stiffens in his arms. "Matt…"

"Coffee then," he rushes to continue. "Maybe we can just talk. I miss how we used to talk Karen. You, me, Foggy. Playing pool at Josie's. Are you ready for that? It doesn't have to be weird."

And this is so hard. It's so _so_ hard. Because like with Elektra she wants so much to put her cards on the table. Tell him she doesn't feel that way about him anymore. That she did once - she _really_ did and she doesn't want to pretend otherwise but it's over now and she's moved on, there's someone else.

But that in turn opens up so many other problematic avenues.

Because Frank is The Punisher. He's not going to take her out and romance her. There are no walks in the park and lazy Sundays. No holidays with the family. And that's okay. She's accepted that even when there are still other aspects of their relationship she hasn't quite got her head around.

She realises she's also going to have to keep a big part of her life from almost everyone. That to the world she's going to be Karen Page, eternal spinster showing no interest in meeting anyone or sharing her life. And she hasn't quite worked that one out yet, hasn't quite come to terms with the reality of that. Hasn't thought about the bigger ramifications. And that's okay. It's early days yet. Still though. _Still_.

"It's just coffee Karen. It's not even a date. Look I know I messed up. I do. And not telling you the truth wasn't even the worst part."

And he leans in close so that he can talk into her ear and she can feel his breath on her neck.

"I hung you and Foggy out to dry with the Frank Castle trial..."

 _And then you used him as a platform for self-aggrandisement when you did show up,_ she thinks but she doesn't say it.

"My headspace was bad and I'm sorry and I want to make up for it…"

He turns them suddenly and she catches sight of Elektra across the floor, dancing with Smirnov. And the look on her face is pure resignation.

 _(I want him, he wants you…)_

And suddenly nothing Matt is saying makes the slightest bit of difference. None of the apologies or the frustration with her or with himself are of any consequence.

And she knows what she has to do.

So she stops him. Not just his talking, but the dancing as well.

"Matt," she says and he lifts his head, inclines it towards her and if she could see his eyes she's sure there would be hope in them.

And she's not heartless, she's not completely uncaring about what this is going to do to him, how much it will hurt. But she does it anyway.

Because it's the right thing to do. For all of them.

"You need to go and dance with your date. She's here and she's waiting for you."

And he's about to say something, she can already see the way his jaw is working hard as he tries to formulate a response so she tries to head him off, give him a quick kiss on the cheek and turns to go to Foggy. But he won't let her and he catches her fingers, tightens his grip on her. He doesn't drag her back though. He just holds her hand for a few seconds, chewing on the inside of his mouth and she waits for him to say what he needs to. To get it off his chest.

"There's something different about you Karen," he says. "Something has changed."

"No," she answers as she pulls away. "No. I'm still the same."

And it's God's honest truth.

* * *

 **Once again Foggy is quoting _Aladdin_**

 **Foggy is also singing _You're so Vain_ by Carly Simon.**


	12. Give into your bleeding

**Who knew? Apparently I am still updating here. Chapter title is from Rob Thomas' _Pieces_. I've also played a bit fast and loose with New York's geography.**

* * *

Frank doesn't come back on Thursday and the rain still falls heavily. The drains overflow on ninth, fourteenth and twenty-seventh, buses are cancelled and the subway has severe delays on some of the lines.

One of the underpasses gets flooded too and the homeless shelter is overwhelmed by the afternoon until Smirnov turns up with a truckload of supplies. The paper runs a story on his generosity and while Ellison doesn't say anything he does give Karen a long, meaningful look, which conveys all the gravitas his words would have. Likely more.

It's not all bad though.

Joe, seemingly bearing no ill will from her gentle rebuff on Monday, tells her the weather should start clearing on Friday but there's another storm expected by Sunday and he doesn't know how long that one will last nor how much miserable weather is destined to follow it. And when she purses her lips and gives him an exasperated look he hastily adds that, since he's been so incredibly accurate in his predictions since last week, there's really no reason to doubt him now.

She tells him good-naturedly that even a stopped clock is right twice a day and he makes a face.

But stopped clock or not, he's right. By Friday afternoon the rain is all but gone and the sun is shining weakly behind the clouds and, as she's heading home, she suddenly stops and thinks how pretty and vibrant the city looks. It's clean and it smells fresh, of petrichor and sunlight and no longer of blood and gunsmoke, chemicals and decay.

She knows it's fake. She knows that the seedy underbelly is still there even if it's just camouflaged for the time being. That said, she can't help the way her heart lifts when she sees the puddles sparkling and the hint of a rainbow's vivid colours against the blue-tinged sky. And she chuckles when a little girl with bright red wellington boots splashes her shoes and runs off shrieking to her mother.

It doesn't matter what Joe says. She's choosing to believe that summer is coming, that there'll be a little sunshine in her life. That Frank will come home and for a while they can just rest, figure this thing out between them, find a way to make it work. And maybe that's not possible, maybe she's living in a fantasy world, but, as she watches the sunlight glitter across the wet streets and sees the last of the dirt washing away in a storm water drain, she finds she can hope.

She can also hope that this thing with Matt is sorted soon, that there is some plan to be made, some way to expose this farce and let everyone move on with their lives. To put Vanessa and the rest of them behind bars where they belong.

Just a break, all she wants is just a fucking break.

And she can't deny she's getting edgy about Frank too. It's not that she spends all her time pining for him. Apparently that is another hold he doesn't get to have over her. But she worries and she misses him and she wonders if she'd ever know if something were to happen to him. Something bad. Something tragic. Something like if she hadn't found him in time that horrible night two weeks ago.

It's not like she _couldn't_ see herself taking a trip to Jersey if the need arose - the shelter itself shouldn't be very hard to find - and retracing his footsteps in this instance shouldn't be difficult either. But the thought of even having to make that decision fills her with dread. And she realises that for as long as this thing between them lasts, she'll probably have some lingering part of that anxiety with her whenever he's gone.

It's not like he even went to Jersey to punish, to kill. It's not like he was even putting himself in any danger really. But when she thinks of her luck and she thinks of how the fucking universe has been treating her and everyone in her considerably small circle of late, she wonders if it wouldn't be a fucking sick cosmic joke for Frank to get taken out by a car accident on the way back. The Punisher ended by a drunk driver or someone texting and not looking at the road.

And that thought fills her with more foreboding than if she knew he was destined to go out fighting. She thinks she could live with it if he died punishing, if he died doing something he believed in, even if she's not sure how to feel about that. But going out in something as mundane as a car crash, something so ordinary, so _regular,_ seems wrong somehow - a bad tagline to a terrible joke.

And she _has_ to push the thought away. Because she knows she doesn't have the fortitude to think on it now. The city is bright and beautiful and she's not going to let wholly unfounded fears get the better of her. She guesses when you love someone, regardless of who they are and what they do, it's always served up with a side dish of fear, of hurt.

He said he'd be back and he doesn't lie to her. He doesn't. And she believes him.

But he doesn't come home on Friday and she goes to Claire's place with a bottle of wine and some overpriced sushi takeaways and they spend the night chatting and laughing and playing with their food.

They don't talk much about Frank or Matt or Claire's love life such as it may be right now. Instead Claire tells her about work, that they lost three of the victims of the bus crash from the previous week. Says she doesn't know why as they all seemed to be doing so well but as a nurse she's seen just about everything. She says it's sad though - their families are all devastated and delivering hard news like that never gets easier, especially as in all three cases the deceased was the main breadwinner. There's some good news too though. She's being promoted to head nurse at the hospital and she's started yoga and feels great about it. She's also thinking of taking a holiday at the end of the year if the goddamn vigilante population of Hell's Kitchen will take a fucking break and let her have a week or two off. She wants to see Argentina in their summer. Wants to spend her days tasting wine and riding a bike through the vineyards, lying in the sun in the afternoons and going to sleep with the windows open. And it sounds wonderful. And Karen tells her she'll do her damndest to make sure that happens. She'll lock the whole sorry lot of them in an underground hole, station some knucklehead guards at the door if she has to. Because if she can't get Claire Temple's goddamn likeness into the Vatican she's going to find another way to sanctify her - even if the best she can do is give her a long, lazy and carefree holiday. Because dammit, she deserves it more than any of them.

Claire laughs, says she'll hold her to it.

And then Karen goes home to her empty apartment and her bed that feels too big and she curls around herself and tries not to think of all the reasons he's still not there with her.

Joe is right about the weather.

When she wakes up on Saturday, the sky is clear and clean, a gentle blue that makes her feel better just looking at it. She stands at her window and stares down at the street below and she can feel how the mood of the city has changed, how it's lighter and happier and there's a spark of something close to hope in the air.

And suddenly she wants to be out there stealing the sunshine. Not cooped up in her apartment with a moody little black cat who's stretched out on Frank's side of the bed, paws over her eyes, like she's had a hard night and isn't even remotely close to recovering.

"You better not be a vigilante too," Karen says sternly to her. "No secret cat identities. Claire is not going to be patching you up."

Pickle rolls over, kicks a little at the pillows and ignores her, which is to be expected. She's missing Frank too and Karen thinks again it's not a surprise that they've formed this kind of bond. In his own way Frank's been a stray since Maria died and well, Pickle has a lot of rage. And they both gravitate towards her, like she's some kind answer to their questions, a treatment for their condition. She wouldn't have known how to feel about that before, but she does now and it's a good feeling.

It's the best feeling.

She showers and gets dressed: a short flower print wrap skirt and a sleeveless button down black shirt, wedge sandals that are a little high but she doesn't care about that. Not at all.

Pretty matters.

She checks her phone as she gets to the door. There's a message from Claire complaining about a hangover even though they didn't drink much at all, and another from Foggy, which doesn't say anything but is just an endless block of poop emojis. Finally, there's a reminder from Elektra to call when Frank is back and ordinarily that kind of thing would annoy her - it does when Ellison does it, when he gets himself tied up in knots that she's going to forget the obvious things - but this doesn't. And she's not sure if it's more because she's also worried about Matt or if it's because she understands some of the anxiety that Elektra is feeling.

She feels a kind of kinship with her; an understanding that doesn't really require them to like each other or be friends but exists nonetheless.

For now at least.

But she's not going to spend her day dwelling on that. The truth is she's not sure what she's going to spend her day doing. But she's determined it's not going to be in here. It's going to be out in the sunshine because, if what Joe says is true and they can expect another storm tomorrow, she doesn't want to miss a second of this.

So she grabs a light cardigan, stuffs it into her purse and heads out, and not even Irene's judgy look at her short skirt and bare legs can sour her mood.

Outside it's just as pretty and warm as she hoped. The puddles have mostly evaporated and the light is clean and bright and the colours seem a little more saturated and vibrant than usual.

Hell's Kitchen can be beautiful when it wants. Not gaudy like the night of the fireworks, not the cathouse madam. But something else. Something pure and innocent, something _good_. And she wants to revel in it, live in it and never let it go and maybe keep a part of this for herself.

And yes, she knows she's waxing lyrical and no doubt in a few days time some shit will have gone down and it'll be as seedy as it's ever been, and she'll find more reasons to hate it and want no part of it. But not today. Because today is perfect.

Or at least it has the potential to be once she's got some caffeine in her system.

So she heads around the corner and down the street to her local haunt, a small patisserie she often stops at in the morning on the way to work. It doesn't even compare to the one near Foggy - it's completely without chic decor and there's nothing artisanal about its coffee - but it's still good and its eclairs would give even Foggy's apricot slices some stiff competition.

It's busy and noisy inside and the baristas look frazzled but they still wave to her and she waves back.

It seems like the whole street is here demanding iced frappuccinos and various over-the-top milkshakes for their kids. But she finds even the queue and the yelling children can't destroy her mood. Today is going to be a good day. It just can't not be. And it doesn't matter if she's alone or if she has no plan, she can make her own happiness.

And she is.

At the counter she orders a latte and when she pulls out her card to pay, the cashier, a young college student who could well be related to Foggy's doorman judging by his red hair and general state of inebriation, narrows his eyes at her, turns away and has a brief discussion with one of the baristas.

"You're Karen right?" he asks.

She frowns. "Yes."

He grins wanly at her, puts a hand to his head like the noise is painful and to be fair, it probably is. "It's on the house."

And she guesses this isn't that uncommon. She knows they get a certain number of free coffees to give away every month for the faces they recognise. But this feels different if only because he asked her name first.

She smiles, cocks her head. "Why?"

"Well okay, it's not exactly on the house," he says it like she's caught him and his fuzzy brain out. "Guy in here a couple of minutes ago paid for it. Big. Dark hair. Spoke like he'd be happy to kill me if I asked him too many questions..."

He stops, frowns for a second like he's considering something. "...or if I fucked up his order."

And then he covers his mouth. "Sorry Ma'am, I didn't…"

But she shakes her head quickly and he seemingly leaps at the opportunity to smooth over his language and change the subject.

"Sound like anyone you know?"

Yes. Yes it does. And it hasn't been that long since this happened but it feels like it has. Feels like it's been decades since she's arrived here to find her coffee paid for, compliments of the man dressed in black.

And truthfully it's only been six weeks, and she's had him in her home for two of those give or take a few days. But she's missed this and she's missed him and she's missed the bullets on her windowsill and _Shining Star_ in her car. She's missed all the little ways he let her know he was thinking about her, that he cared. And sure, she's got something better now. She knows she does. But this… _this_ is them. This is _their_ origin story as opposed to his or hers separately. This is what stemmed from all those fateful days and nights. This is how he makes it real.

"You okay Karen … I mean ma'am… miss?"

She nods, blinking rapidly and she doesn't know why she wants to cry all of a sudden, doesn't know why she wants to fall to her knees and sob. It's just coffee. It's just a fucking latte.

But it isn't. It isn't just _anything_. It means he's back and he's here and he's waiting for her. It means the universe didn't use her wild card and she didn't let the nightmares come true. She has her Punisher and maybe, just maybe that means Karen can have her Frank.

Maybe.

The possibility is slim but she'll take it.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she says. "I'm good."

"You sure?"

He's still watching her and seemingly unconcerned about the growing line behind her.

"Yeah I'm sure. Do you know where he went?"

"Oh yeah," he turns and points towards the side of the building. "He took his coffee and went to the tables at the back. Couldn't be more than 10 minutes ago. You could probably still catch him if you want."

And she does. She does want. She wants so much.

She doesn't remember if she says goodbye or if she thanks him, but she does remember thinking the queue is too long and too stoic and struggling to get through the people to the outside. She does remember a kid nearly wiping chocolate fingers on her skirt and she does remember having to push her way out the door and the wonderful feeling of sunshine on her face as she does.

And she walks, she walks fast as she can even though her legs feel like jelly and her chest is tight and she's telling herself not to expect any damn thing, not to get her hopes up. But she does. She does because what else could it be? What else other than him could it possibly _possibly_ be? So she heads round the corner and down the alley that runs behind the coffee shop into a small open area where there are a few rickety outside tables and a couple of unkempt plants which seem to be both the responsibility of the shop and the council, which means no one really gives a fuck about them. And she doesn't know why she's registering that, why something as inconsequential as the overgrown inner city foliage is even beeping her radar. She ignores it. She ignores everything.

He's there.

 _Oh god, he's really there._

Sitting alone at one of the tables, reading the paper, a half full coffee cup next to him.

There's a moment when she doesn't believe he's real. A moment her fucked up brain won't let her accept it and she's convinced she's seeing things and he isn't actually here. That this is a dream or a fantasy and he's dead on the highway somewhere and she's going to go home and see it on the news.

But it isn't true. It's _not._ And she hates that she convinced herself otherwise, that she's so goddamned dramatic about it.

They're just people. There's no cosmic conspiracy against them.

He looks up then, tilts his head towards her.

His hair is slightly shorter than it was and his beard is gone and it makes him seem harder, angular. He looks good but it's not just that his bruises have faded and he's not frowning. It's something else, something that completely overshadows pretty much every other thing about him. And it takes her a second to define it, to name it and when she does, it almost floors her.

He's _happy._

And no, it's not a word she ever thought she'd use to describe him. Frank Castle and happiness seem too juxtaposed, nonsensical almost.

And yet...

And yet she's 100% sure she's correct. He is genuinely and unapologetically _happy_. Maybe it's just the sunshine or maybe it's because he's back or maybe it's her, but the look on his face is almost joyful. And again it's one of those moments when she sees _him_. The real him. The person he is in his bones. Frank Castle. The husband and the father and the man who makes bad jokes and loves dogs.

There's no destruction, there's no war, there's not even rage. There's no Punisher either. He's just a man, a good man, a decent man, reading the paper on a Saturday morning.

And then he stands and his movements are deliberate and graceful, and she likes the way the light glints in his eyes and how she can see he's trying so hard not to grin at her like an idiot.

But he does.

And it's that joy that gets her walking again, moving faster than she should in her heels, not caring that she's slopping her coffee or that it's burning her hand, barely registering as she dumps the cup on one of the empty tables and promptly forgets she ever had it.

He closes the distance between them in a few short strides and he's already reaching for her, hands sliding over her hips, thumbs tracing the line of them and then he's pulling her tight against him, burying his nose in her hair and kissing her cheek and her jaw, that tender spot on her throat he's found before but hasn't really concentrated on. Hasn't had the chance to until now.

Oh god. _Until now._

"My girl," he says softly and she winds her arms around his neck, and tucks her face into his shoulder, pulls him closer and presses some kisses of her own into his flesh.

And he smells so good. Soap and coffee and some cedarwood aftershave she wants to drown in. That hint of gunmetal so faint she barely notices it.

"Missed you," he growls, lips ghosting over her cheek, nipping at her earlobe, and she feels her knees go weak, goosebumps flaring on her skin despite the sunshine "Missed you every fucking second. Couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Missed you too," she whispers and he rubs her back, hands huge and warm and moving slowly over her, fingertips trailing down her side, missing her breast by a fraction of a millimetre.

She wants to take him home. The idea enters her head and pushes every other damn thought out like it was never there. Fuck the sunshine and the gorgeous day and how the air is warm and comforting and seems to hold them in place. Fuck the happy people and the fact that today of all days they _should_ be outside. She thought that was what she wanted - it _was_ what she wanted. But now she has this. Now she has him. And she wants something else. She wants him in her apartment, in her bed, the lights dim and the windows open. She wants his hands on her, his mouth. She wants him naked and needy and a little bit overwhelmed. And she wants to be the one overwhelming him.

And maybe a month ago she would have laughed at herself for even entertaining the idea but not today. Because today she could.

She _knows_ she could.

Hands in his hair now and she's angling his face to hers. Gentle kisses on his lips and cheeks, and his fingers tremble on her, dig into her hips and ass, and he groans softly in the back of his throat.

And when he pulls away, just enough to look at her, just enough so she can see the flare in his eyes, the set of his jaw as he chews on the inside of his cheek. And she stares back. And she sees it too. Sees that he wants exactly what she does - to go back to her place, take the day and have her any goddamn way he wants.

And he teeters on the edge a little, there's a moment she thinks he'll throw himself off and just let her decide how she wants this to play out. Absolve himself of making decisions and let her lead, but then he catches himself, lifts his hands from the small of her back and rests them on her naked arms, rubs firmly like he's trying to keep her warm even though he must know part of her is already on fire.

"Come away with me," he says touching his knuckles to her jaw. "Just for today. Please."

He doesn't have to ask. She'll go with him anywhere. And earlier she might have worried about that, might have found herself irresponsible and love drunk but right now she doesn't care. She can be responsible, salt-of-the-earth Karen Page tomorrow. Today she's not. Today she's the woman that loves Frank Castle more than anything and today she's going to go wherever that takes her.

So yes, yes, she'll go anywhere with him. All he needs to do is name the place. And he grins at her, tells her to get her coffee, and then he leads her to his truck where it's parked down the street.

And again, he looks happy. She can't even begin to describe what it does to him, how it transforms him. He's always been attractive to her with his dark eyes and square jaw, but looking at him now and seeing that at least some of the pain is not present gives him something else, a calmness she doesn't expect, a genuine playfulness that's not hidden behind sarcasm and despair.

He holds the door for her and she climbs up, slides across the seat so she's sitting close to him when he gets in, doesn't miss a beat when he leans over and plants a kiss on her lips.

"Ready?"

She nods.

More than ready.

He smiles again and turns the key, pulls into the traffic and heads north out of Hell's Kitchen; out of New York and into the world beyond where she hopes for a while they can forget who they are and the things they need to do.

They don't talk much and she doesn't ask where they're going and he turns up the radio and hums along to Bruce Springsteen who's waiting on a sunny day.

 _It's rainin' but there ain't a cloud in the sky_  
 _Must've been a tear from your eye_  
 _Everythin' will be okay_  
 _Funny, thought I felt a sweet summer breeze_  
 _Must've been you sighin' so deep  
_ _Don't worry we're gonna find a way_

She laughs and he shoots her a mock warning look and then his mouth twists into a smile and he gives her a gentle shove with his shoulder. And she wonders if this was the Frank Castle from before. The one who romanced Maria with a box of kittens, the one who bought his kids noisy toys and read them bedtime stories. The man oblivious to the torture the world had in store for him.

Except that's not quite right. Because that man doesn't exist anymore. He can't. This - what she's seeing now - is an approximation of it, an outline. Maybe as close as she'll ever get.

And it's enough.

She loves him. She loves him so much.

 _(Don't you know?)_

She does. She knows.

He does too.

She opens the window, leans back in the seat and watches the world rush past, listens to Bruce chasing some clouds away. And when she feels Frank's hand come to rest tentatively on her knee and then rise more decisively up to her thigh, fingers pressing into her flesh, she shivers and she doesn't bother to hold back a gasp.

She's not going to hide how much she wants him. And she's not going to debate the merits of this. He sleeps in her bed, he kisses her and he touches her and a good solid portion of her thoughts involve fucking him.

She's in too deep. She couldn't pull back even if she wanted to.

And she doesn't want to.

"You look nice Karen," he says and his voice is thick and she shifts deliberately against his palm so that his hand slides hot and smooth further up her leg.

He gives her a knowing look, a little smug, a little lewd. He doesn't push it though. Doesn't move too high even though she's convinced he can already feel her damp heat in the air; that there's no way he couldn't know what he's doing nor how she's not even going to bother feeling shy about it.

It's not like his hand is having anything but the absolute desired effect anyway. Not like this isn't the final stretch of something that started one night in a cold cabin when she was naked and he didn't look at her and she wished he had.

Frank Castle has a way and this is a tease, but then again so does she and she can tease right back. She can move against him so that her skirt rides up her legs and when she speaks she doesn't even have to add a huskiness to voice.

He notices. He notices every goddamn thing.

Even when he pretends he doesn't.

The city eventually starts giving way to the countryside. The bigger houses in the suburbs slowly disappearing to open land, bright little cerise and yellow flower buds already pushing through the earth after the rain; an incomplete yet still spectacular floral carpet and she hopes Joe is wrong and they're not in for another storm so soon. That these buds can blossom and grow and have a few days to lift their faces to the sun and cover the ground with their bright colours.

And Frank's hand stays where it is, a warm pressure on her already flushed skin, rubbing tiny circles into her, venturing slightly higher so that her skirt folds over the tops of her thighs, ruching up against her underwear.

It's not like he's unaffected by this either. Whether it's the shortness of her skirt or the smoothness of her skin or just her and the fact that she's here with him, she can't be sure. But she catches him staring at her more than once, has to tell him to keep his eyes on the damn road, that she doesn't want this day to end in the emergency ward on account of her legs.

"Shouldn't be showing off legs like that then," he tosses back, fingertips sweeping along the soft flesh on the inside of her thigh, from her knee almost all the way up and back again. "Ain't remotely fair."

And no, maybe it isn't. But she's not here to play fair.

He does, however, keep his eyes on the road. And she has to remind herself to breathe, to draw in some of that sweet sun-drenched air. Not lose herself to gasps and sighs. It's okay though. And she realises as she's sitting there with his hand on her and her skin flushed that maybe not caring if he sees or knows is the wrong phrase. Because she does care. Because she wants him to know. She wants him to see.

And he does. There isn't much you can hide from Frank Castle anyway.

"You been this way before?" he asks as they pass a sign for Poughkeepsie and she shakes her head.

"Oh yeah, you haven't lived in New York for all that long have you?"

"No."

He doesn't say anything to that. He seems to have realised on some level that this is one of those things she doesn't really want to talk about.

"There's a place I wanna show you," he says. "We took the kids there once or twice…"

And even though he sounds okay and his excitement is genuine, she can't help it, she has to ask.

"You want to take me there?" she whispers and his hand goes still on her leg and when she looks at him he's frowning, chewing on his lip.

 _(I want them back)_

But when he speaks his voice is warm. A little cracked, but warm.

"Yeah I want to take you there." He glances at her briefly and she recognises the shadow crossing over his features, the sudden flash in his eyes.

And he sighs, runs his thumb over her knee. "Karen, no matter where I go or what I do there's always gonna be something to remind me of them. If it ain't a place then it's gonna be a smell or a feeling or the fact that Lisa's favourite colour was purple or Frank Jr had a thing for black fluffy cats and they seemed to have a thing for him too, no matter how bad tempered they were."

He looks pointedly at her then and she swallows. She didn't know. She knew about Lisa and the grey tabby she wanted, but she didn't know about Frank Jr.

"If I look hard enough there's always gonna be something to remind me. Hell, I look in the fucking mirror and that's a reminder. They were my life. They were everything. And maybe the only thing that I had separate from them was the military. And well…"

He trails off. She gets it. The things he can do now, the things he was trained to do - they might have been separate as they could be from his family back then, but now he's the Punisher and it's all become muddied and grey.

"I can't avoid everything because there'll always be something. People with their kids, men with their wives, children's stories, black cats, grey cats, girls in pretty dresses …" he goes quiet again for a second before glancing at her, "being with a woman…"

She can't help the little sound she makes in the back of her throat, the almost involuntary way her leg splays outwards.

"And it's hard. Course it is. But it ain't gonna go away, there ain't some cure for it," he shrugs. "Maybe that's a good thing."

They come to a stop at a lonely intersection, the road empty except for an enormous truck laden with logs pulling out in front of them and he takes the moment to look at her again, long and hard - and she puts her hand over his, slides her fingers between his.

"I'm here now. I'm here. With you." His voice is low, earnest.

And she leans over to him, touches his jaw and plants a kiss on his lips that's gentle and chaste but still lingers longer than it should, that still makes him dig his fingers into her flesh.

He takes a deep, ragged breath, shakes his head and turns his attention back to the empty road, starts driving again.

"I ain't some asshole who's gonna try and keep all this bullshit separate - like you need to be kept away from all the stuff that happened before, like somehow that was real and this isn't. I already told you, this means something to me."

That's true too. And for a second she doesn't really know how to answer. Whether there are words for it.

But there are. She's a writer and there are always words, even if they're small, even if they don't seem to hold the full weight of what she wants to convey.

"Me too," she says softly and he swallows heavily, bobs his head and doesn't look at her, keeps his eyes firmly on the road.

And it's not awkward. Not even a little bit.

The landscape changes from fields to forest and back again. They pass some small towns, either occupied by those too poor to live in New York or those too rich to want to, but they're soon swallowed up by the countryside again, the speckles of bright colour, the blue skies and the dramatic clouds.

She fiddles with the radio once and he gives her a mock warning look so she laughs and she leaves it, lets Bruce sing his heartland heart out and watches Frank's hand tap on the steering wheel in time. And she doesn't think about anything - not any of the conversations they need to have about any of the drama going on, not the fact that, in its basest form, something is happening that she never thought possible and she's on a honest-to-God date with The Punisher. Frank Castle: Scourge of Hell's Kitchen, Meathook Connoisseur and Hopeless Romantic at Heart. It doesn't make sense. But it also doesn't have to.

So instead of worrying she just sits back and enjoys the scenery, the feel of his flesh pressing hers and yes, even the sound of Bruce dancing in the dark on the radio.

Eventually Frank takes a turn off, which leads them past a few meadows and forests and winds back around so she can see some open fields, the river shimmering in the distance and some brightly coloured tents dotted along the promenade, people like little dark specks gathering in groups and clusters nearby.

"What is this?" she asks and he grins, squeezes her thigh hard again as he pulls off the road and into a stone parking area.

"This," he says, "is lunch. And it's really fucking good stuff they've got here."

She glances over at him and he looks so fucking happy, so excited to be here with her and show her this. And it's like he doesn't have a care in the world, like he's taken the Punisher and packed him away in a box and completely forgotten about the existence of that part of his life.

And she finds she doesn't know what to do with that. Because she wants to give into it too, throw herself into it and let him do this. Let him take her on the dates she thought impossible. The birthdays, the anniversaries. Pretend for just a few hours that they can have this. That it's not destined for disaster.

She wants to. She really wants to. But she knows how hard the journey back to reality will be. She knows how hard and how far they'll have to come down.

 _Fuck it._

If he can do it, so can she.

She leans over to kiss his cheek as he stops the truck, moves to his jaw and lets him feel the hint of her teeth against his skin, just enough to make him swallow hard and tighten his grip on her leg.

"Well come on then," she says moving away and pushing her door open, leaving him with his hand stuttering in the air where her thigh used to be. "Don't stand between me and good food, I could take you if I needed to."

He doesn't even bother with a mock withering look, doesn't even try. Instead he nods his head as he climbs out of the truck.

"I don't doubt it," he says and he's not even remotely close to lying or indulging her. He honestly believes it. And again she's struck by the fact that she could be the one to overwhelm him, that he's the big bad Punisher but the power here is hers, that somehow she _is_ the woman strong enough for him to love.

The only thing that remains to be seen is if she's strong enough to love him back.

But that's not a question for now, so she won't think about it. Instead she lets him take her hand, press his lips to her temple and lead her to the promenade where people are forming messy lines near the food stalls and children are chasing each other through the grass.

She takes a moment to just absorb everything: him at her side, the fresh smell of the sunshine, obnoxious seagulls cawing overhead, the way the light reflects off the river turning it blue and shiny instead of the dull khaki she knows it to be.

It's beautiful. It's beautiful in a way she didn't realise.

She read once that the Danube looks grey and drab until the moment you fall in love. And then it becomes a mix of cerulean and teal, bright aquamarines. She wonders now if that's true of all rivers, wonders if this is the reason she's only ever seen the Hudson as uninteresting and, if she's honest, something of an eyesore in the wrong light.

And then Frank slings an arm around her shoulders and draws her close, brushes his lips against her neck and she's sure it's true.

Not even an iota of doubt.

She's in love and the sun is shining and the water is blue. And everything is wrong but nothing on Earth can ruin this moment. She won't let it.

"It's so pretty," she says and next to her he nods, drops a hand to her hip, fingers almost absently tracing the thin line of her underwear through her skirt.

"Haven't seen it like this in a long time."

The big bad Punisher … the big bad Punisher and the girl that loves him.

So they walk for a while, dodging the families with their kids, couples with stars in their eyes, the brightly coloured tents and the delicious smell of the street food. They watch jet skis on the river, the gentle lapping of the waves and Frank snorts when he sees a fluffy Maltese walking past with pink polka dot bows in its fur.

And it just feels so fucking normal. It just feels so damn ordinary, even though it's the most out-of-the-ordinary thing to happen to her in a long time. He's a murderer, a _mass_ murderer. He's angry and frightened and, if she's honest, probably not 100% in his right mind. And the only reason he's not on any wanted lists is because only a select few people know he's alive - a number which seems to be steadily increasing. And no, that hasn't escaped her notice either.

But here they are. Here they are like any other couple, couples that have homes and jobs and pets and lives, and anyone who saw them wouldn't think any different. They'd believe the fantasy.

Fuck, _she_ believes the damn fantasy.

He tugs her a little closer and she wonders how dearly they'll need to pay for this. What they'll need to give up or give back because she doesn't think they get to have this for free. She just doesn't think it works like that.

Then again, today is so beautiful that she thinks if they ever had a chance it's now. So she doesn't hold back. She _won't_. She holds him tight, touches him, lets her fingers creep under the edges of his shirt so that her fingers can brush his skin, make it prickle. Watches him out of the corner of her eye and sees his jaw get tight, feels how he moves closer to her, presses against her hands.

He tells her to pay attention to the scenery. She tells him she is.

"How is Luna? How did everything go?" she asks eventually, and he flashes her a smile which is equal parts happiness and anguish.

"She's great," he says, voice soft and low like he's worried he'll jinx it if he talks too loudly. "She's going to be so happy there. The kennels, they ain't that sad shit you see on TV. They're big and clean and fucking amazing. Kat's even got aircon and heaters and shit in there."

She cocks her head, and seemingly encouraged he carries on.

He tells her about the farm, how big it is, how pretty it is, how Kat has a really good thing going on there. And again she wonders about this woman, wonders what happened and how Frank came to know her. What he did and who he killed that she'll take his dog in no questions asked, let him stay for a week. But she doesn't ask. She doesn't think she's ready for the story that'll bring up, doesn't want to taint the day. So she lets him talk, tightens her grip around him when he tells her about leaving Luna there, when she hears the tremble in his voice.

"I took her walking in the woods there, along some of the trails. She loved it… she's a great dog. She's a really great dog."

His voice is measured, and she can hear how hard she's trying to keep it that way.

"They ain't gonna adopt her out," he says. "She's too old and she needs medication. And people don't really go for pitbulls especially when their history is… like hers."

He lets her go then, leans his forearms on the railing and looks out into the river, watches the sunlight glitter across the surface, making it sparkle and shimmer. She moves next to him, touches his hair and then trails her hand down his back to rest between his shoulder blades, rubs gently, slowly.

And he closes his eyes, arches slightly.

"It's not a bad thing," he says, more to himself than to her. "Means she has a home forever now with Kat. Don't have to worry about other people not treating her right."

She runs her hand downwards and then under his shirt. The small of his back is hot, slightly sweaty but she doesn't care and she trails her fingers over him, feels the hard muscle and the smooth lines, the fact that there are fewer knots than she anticipated.

Again the desire to abandon this excursion flares within her. In her head, in her belly. Between her legs. But she pushes it away because it's not real. It's nothing but blind lust and this is important. She wants it. She wants the romance that she knows he can't give much of. It's got to be right. He showed her that.

"We can go see her sometime then," she says and he nods, opens his eyes, stares at the water for a few long seconds. "It's not far. You can show me everything."

She's making plans. She realises this. And they might seem small. They might seem insignificant but they're plans nonetheless. They're workable ideas that involve the two of them in the not too near future. There's history to be made here. There's the admission of something more.

He feels it too. She doesn't have to ask him to be sure.

But he doesn't say anything, and she's not really sure he's even mulling over the implications of it. And then he pushes himself upright, pulls her close and kisses her lips gently.

"Let's go eat."

They do.

They find a bench in the shade a bit away from all the people where they can see the river and eat. And like he promised it's good. Really good. He's got himself some kind of duck burger and she's eating a shish kebab - a bowl of cardiac arrest which might just worth it.

She tells him about the party, Smirnov and his new plans for the city, about Elektra. About Vanessa - and his eyes flare at that but he doesn't interrupt. He lets her speak, waits her out. Listens.

She also tells him about Matt, how determined he is to find something, how Elektra is equally determined to keep him out of harm's way. How those two things are looking increasingly incompatible. The lengths she's going to.

"She wants to know if you can't go around there? Speak to him," she licks some mayonnaise off her thumb. "Keep him out of trouble. I think basically she wants a plan that doesn't involve taking on every mobster in Hell's Kitchen all at once."

He rolls his eyes. "For fuck's sake Red…"

She shrugs. "I'd feel better if you did too Frank. So would Foggy."

It's true. She's not going to pretend that Matt is of no consequence to her. That he doesn't matter. Because he does. And maybe he doesn't matter to her in the way he wants. Maybe he wants more and maybe he won't get over that. But she does care about him. She does want him safe. She doesn't want to be the one writing about his downfall or worse, his demise because he's over eager, reckless.

Frank looks away, chewing thoughtfully, eyes on the river where a couple is kayaking.

"I wasn't wrong - what I said before," There's a catch in his voice but it's not jealousy. It's not really even concern. But it's something, something she hasn't heard before, something she's not sure she likes. "He still loves you."

She nods. She doesn't have the energy to fight it and it would be pointless too. It is what it is.

So she nods. "He does."

He looks back at her and his eyes are dark, unreadable. "How does that make you feel?"

Any other man, even a boyfriend, and she'd tell him to fuck off, tell him it has nothing to do with him. But this is Frank. This isn't any other man.

She shrugs. "Flattered I guess. But maybe a little sad too. Guilty. Responsible."

"Ain't your responsibility."

"I know but that doesn't change anything," she glances at the kayak too. "I want him to be safe.

"Matt helped me when no one else would. He believed me when no one else did. He's idealistic and righteous but he's a good person - you know that."

He takes another bite of his food, nods. This is the first time since that night at the diner that they've ever discussed Matt openly and honestly. He's not being used as a taunt or a weapon. He's not being used as a way for Frank to justify deflecting his own feelings. He just is. And even though there's something a little disconcerting in Frank's tone, it feels good and mature and almost like they've overcome a hurdle to talk about him like this - as someone they both know and care for. It doesn't have to be weird. And it almost isn't.

"I'll go round there later tonight. Find out what the hell is going on. Talk to Elektra too and see whether there is something we can do. Sounds like anything is a better plan than the one he's got."

He's quiet for a moment, like he's trying to figure something out. But then he looks back at her.

"This thing has gone on long enough anyway. If they're trafficking people like Elektra says we need to end it and we need to do it properly."

She knows his idea of "properly" differs vastly from Matt's. And she hates how this makes her feel because a few minutes ago she was making plans to go and see Luna and now he's making plans he might not survive. At the same time she gets it and she hopes that somehow between him and Matt and him and her they can find something that works. Mahoney is still a good cop. And he knows other good cops and maybe they don't need to fight this alone. Even Frank would see the value in that if the stakes are too high.

She touches the back of his hand.

"Thanks, I'll send Elektra a message now."

He nods. "One condition though."

"Name it."

"We don't talk about Murdock for the rest of the day."

She grins. "Fine by me."

And they don't.

They eat and when they're done, she leans into him and he puts his arm around her shoulders, rests his chin on her head, hand back on her knee. They don't talk, there's no need, and for a while it's just peaceful. The sun, the water gleaming in front of them and the gentle breeze lifting her hair, the strangely removed buzz of the crowd further away.

And him. Always him. Quiet and comforting. Present and engaged.

She concentrates on the little things: the way his trigger finger taps her knee in a gentle but broken rhythm; a scar that cuts across his knuckles, the line of it turning silver in the bright light; the soft smoothness of the skin on his neck and how he shivers when she presses her lips to it - how that just makes her want to do it even more.

So she does, all the way along his collarbones - not kisses, not in the truest sense of the word, but brief fluttering touches with her mouth, touches that make him hiss and swallow hard. And he eventually stops tapping on her knee and just covers it with his hand, squeezes, and her skin feels hot and flushed beneath it.

She _can_ overwhelm him. It's not a question anymore. There aren't doubts. And when he turns his head to her, nuzzles her jaw and then her throat she knows he can do it too. And again she feels that liquid heat between her legs and she has to press her thighs together, shift on the bench to get comfortable again.

He notices. He notices every damn thing. And she wants him to. He deserves it. He deserves something other than pain and suffering, whether it's the type he's inflicting or the type he carries deep inside. He deserves any peace he'll allow himself.

 _(And then I'm with you and somehow it feels okay)_

She brings a hand up to his chest, then higher to his shoulder, slips it into the front his his shirt and he breathes deeply, angles his body towards her, watches silently as she undoes a button, then another so she can rest her palm flat against his skin and feel his heartbeat hard and heavy against her. It's not racing, not yet, but soon.

 _Soon_.

He shivers and his teeth scrape along the skin of her neck, nipping at the juncture of her shoulder. She thinks of Monday night when she lay in her bed with her fingers inside her, how she thought of him and his kisses, his hands on her and how then it seemed almost abstract and incorporeal. How even though she'd just kissed him and touched him, imagining it happening again seemed both beyond her capabilities and also something she didn't really want to do.

And she still doesn't really want to do it. She doesn't want to imagine the tangible aspects of fucking Frank Castle, because she wants to be surprised, she wants to be taken.

He wants to take her too. It isn't even a question.

His tongue is on her now, hot and wet and yet still tentative as he tastes her skin, presses kisses into her and he smiles against her as she shivers, bites down again gently, slowly, and she's glad they've chosen this spot away from the crowd.

But then he seems to get a hold of himself again and he shifts back a little so he can see her, frowning and worrying his lip with his teeth like he has something to say and isn't sure how.

He lifts his hand from her knee and touches her face with his knuckles, thumb sweeping along her cheekbone.

"I did some thinking while I was in Jersey," he says slowly and his voice is low and thick. "About you and me. This thing between us…"

 _(We have to let it go)_

 _Fireworks in the sky and Frank Castle's blood on her. The wall against her back and how he nearly let her fall._

But no, he doesn't say that. He's not going to say that again, won't let her fall. He's here now with her. He made promises. He doesn't break them.

He sighs, fingers moving into her hair, sliding along her scalp.

"Look Karen, I don't know where this is gonna go. I don't. And maybe one day you're gonna come to your goddamn senses and kick my ass out."

She wonders what he could do to make that happen, what horror he could visit on her that she hasn't already seen. Because she's seen him at his worst and she's still here, her body and her heart and her mind all tangled up in him, all part of him as he is of her.

"Frank…"

"No," he says and glances down, to the side, biting his lip. And when he looks back at her he meets her eyes, stares at her long and hard for a good few seconds.

"You… you stayed. And I don't know why the fuck you did that. After the graveyard … after that shit I said. Shoulda sent me packing. But you didn't. You stood there and you took it and then you kicked my ass and let me cry it out like a fucking baby and you didn't judge me for any of it. Ain't anyone but Maria who ever did that before. Ain't anyone but her who could fucking grind me into the dust like that and then make me carry on going… make me want to..."

"That's okay Frank. You needed…"

"But that's just it," he interrupts. " _I_ needed, _I_ wanted. Every goddamn thing is about me and fixing me."

This is hard for him. So she's going to let him take his time and say it, get it right. So she waits. She rubs her thumb in small circles against his chest, feels his skin prickling under her palm and hears him suck in a hard, ragged breath.

"We don't get to pick the things that fix us. We don't. I told Red that once and I'm telling you now.

"But it ain't your job to fix me. It ain't right for a man to put that on his girl…" Hand back on her face now. "It's my job to be fixed for you."

He says it with such certainty, such utter belief that she almost feels her heart break right open. It's that little monster again, the one from the cabin that had to eat its way out of his chest so that it could speak to her, so that he could say the words. And yet… and yet, it seems easier this time. Almost like he's helping it, like he's stopped fighting it.

He's done some bad things. Some terrible awful things, she just never realised he thought he did them to her.

"And I don't know when that's gonna be Karen," he continues. "I don't know when I'm gonna be right again. I told you I thought I could let this go, I _wanted_ to let it go. But I can't and I'm not gonna give this up because of bad timing or some lame ass shit that people say when they're looking for a story to tell themselves."

And all of a sudden he looks away from her, squeezes his eyes shut and like this hurts, like it causes him actual physical pain.

And that's when she realises that he's asking her if she'll have him. Fundamentally, underneath all the bullshit, underneath the rage and the suffering and every horrific thing he's ever done that is his ultimate question.

But it isn't a question. It isn't a question at all.

 _(Don't you know?)_

So she slides her hand up his neck into his hair, tilts his face to her and when he opens his eyes she can see the fear in them.

He's begging. Without saying a damn word, he's on his fucking knees and asking her to let him try.

"I'm here," she says. "I'm here with you after all this. After everything. And that's real. That's important."

She's not sure what she expected. Relief, tears, maybe even more rage - at himself, at the world. But Frank Castle never does what anyone expects. Until he does.

He looks at her for a long time, his thumb tracing the contours of her cheek, her brow, fingers gentle on her jaw like he's trying to learn her lines, learn the shape and feel of her. And he's frowning like he's not sure what any of this means and he's trying to find an answer that's just not there. That'll never be there.

He's very close to her, so close she can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the sheen of saliva on his lips. He wants to kiss her. She knows this. It doesn't take much to figure it out. He wants to kiss her long and hard and deep like he did before he left. He wants to touch her and taste her and drown in her. And she wants that too. She wants it so much that she doesn't know if she'll be able to stop when it happens.

Doesn't know if that's a bad thing either.

It seems like ages before his speaks, like they've been sitting there for decades staring at one another, his hands on her head, hers on his heart.

"This is about you from now on," he says solemnly. "Know that."

He doesn't lie to her. He doesn't lie to her ever. And she believes this with as much faith as she's believed everything else he's told her.

And then he nods. Short and sharp. Like he trusts that she's got it, accepts it. That it's _right_. It's the same look her gave her in the shower that night, when he wiped the mist off the door with his hand and looked in on her like he needed to confirm something. And even though she knows she couldn't live with herself if she wasn't there for him, if she wasn't his first port of call when he hurts or when he's distressed, she realises that this is a need for him too. That he wants to be there for her. That he wants to stop hurting all the time.

So she leans in and brushes her lips against the corner of his mouth, lingers. Once she broke the skin there with her hand and now she can heal it, turn it into something good.

"Us," she says softly as she pulls back. "No you or me. Us."

There's a second that he doesn't do anything. Doesn't talk, doesn't move. He just watches her, deep and intense, eyes flickering over her face, her hair. She stays still too, staring back, feeling a gentle breeze blowing against her back, ruffling her top.

She gets it. She's done it again. Made plans, spoken about them as if there's a future for them. And maybe that's presumptuous. The man is, after all, still mourning his wife, his one and done, the love of his life. But she doesn't feel worried or guilty, doesn't feel concerned because they both know that there's a part of him that will always be grief. She can accept that. One day, maybe he will too.

"Karen Page," he says roughly. "You make a man weak."

And then he releases her, stands, and for a moment he blocks out the sun, casts a shadow over her. She thinks that's fitting somehow - part of them always in shadow, never fully being in the light. But she doesn't think on it long because he's holding out his hand, palm upwards, and she doesn't hesitate as she takes it, lets him pull her up and lead her to the stone railings so they can look at the river.

It's still blue, that hasn't changed. And if she keeps the sun behind her, she can almost believe they're the only two people here. It's beautiful and he's beautiful and she loves him so much and she realises that it doesn't matter if the rain is coming back, if the storm isn't done with them yet. They've beaten worse odds.

And she hopes the universe won't take that as a challenge.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asks after a while, bumps his shoulder teasingly with her own and he snorts, glances at her and then back at the river without saying anything.

He has that way of his. And that's about 90% of the problem.

But right now he's preoccupied, watching intently as the surface of the river ripples and swirls, as the kayakers come back and their bright orange boat stands out starkly against the gentle blues. He's working up to something, she realises, gathering courage.

It'll come. Whatever it is he's planning or thinking. It'll come. It always does.

He's like a rock next to her, solid and unmoving and she leans into him, lets herself enjoy the press of his shoulder against hers, his hip, thick and hard in the curve of her waist. She could stay here, she realises, stay here forever, with him. She doesn't need much else. For the first time in ages, she, Karen Page, Intrepid Reporter, Lover of Vigilantes and Holder Back of Tears Under Extreme Duress, is content. There's a mass murderer at her side who thinks she hung the moon and the stars, a mass murderer who she loves more than life itself and she's never felt safer.

She rests her head on his shoulder, feels him shift to accommodate her. He's tense but at the same time, there's also a strange calm anticipation in the air. She'll wait. They have time.

She's not remotely cold, but she shivers anyway, and his fingers tighten on hers.

And then she swears she feels him change next to her, transform in a movement she can only describe as "unfolding". And suddenly he's standing up straighter, taller letting whatever magic he was hoping for fill him, those few seconds of courage he so desperately needs

"Frank?" she says softly as he turns his head to look at her.

He smiles. And it's warm and sweet and slightly uncertain.

"I'm sorry," he says and his voice is thick and warm, moving over her like a wave and lighting her up from the inside. "I can't stand here anymore pretending I'm not thinking about kissing you."

He turns fully to look at her and his fingers twitch as he brings a hand to her face, the other to her elbow, tugs her close so that she can feel the heat of his breath on her, see smallest hint of crows' feet around his eyes.

Thumb running along her cheekbone, then her jaw, across her bottom lip.

She looks his dead in the eye and there's a moment that this newfound confidence fails him and he glances away quickly, briefly, bites his lip and seems to almost laugh at himself, shake his head in some private joke.

She knows what it is though.

 _The big bad Punisher shy in front of a girl._

And it's so ridiculous. He's kissed her before and hours ago his hand was high on her thigh, under her skirt. They've slept in the same bed and at night he holds her so tight she can hardly breathe, he buries his face in her hair and presses kisses into her shoulders and yet now, now he's nervous as a schoolboy with a girl behind the bleachers for the first time.

But then he regains his composure, stares at her for a second and it feels like he's looking through her, seeing all her secrets. And she wants to show him. She doesn't want to hide them anymore. She won't. He can have them, take them and keep them and discard all the bad, hold onto all the good.

"Can I?" he asks softly. He's not asking about kissing her, not truly.

She swallows heavily, meets his gaze, black eyes boring into her.

"You don't have to ask Frank," she whispers surprised by how thick and low her voice sounds. "You never had to ask."

His mouth twists into a smile.

"Just this once then," he says and she nods.

"Just this once."

She catches a glimpse of his eyes, dark, pupils blown, the ruddiness of his skin, the faintest hint of his bruises, the slight stubble that scrapes against her cheek and then his lips are on hers and that's all she knows.

She's had so many fantasies about this. Not just since Monday when she found out what it was like, but since the cabin, maybe even before. But, like before, the reality of him always surprises her. Everything screams that he should be hard and demanding, desperate and rough. And even though she can feel the hints of all these things - the outlines and the promises, his kiss is soft, chaste even, except for the slightest hint of wetness on his lips, smearing onto hers.

He lingers though, hand fluttering at her cheek, fingers flexing in her hair, before he pulls back ever so slightly, takes a breath and then angles his head to kiss her again. He's harder the second time, hand sliding from her jaw to her throat and settling there like a subtle demand, a question even, mouth heavier on hers but not nearly heavy enough.

He retreats again and that's when something unfurls inside of her too - something that's been lying inside her benign and waiting, something that's slowly been stirring, making itself known, waiting. Waiting for him.

She surges forward, hands gripping his arms like claws, then sliding up to his shoulders, his neck, and dragging him back down, mouth arching hard against his. There's a moment, infinitesimally small, when he hesitates. It could be surprise, it could be something else but it's so brief she's not even sure he registers it. And then she parts her lips under his and he groans as his tongue slips into her mouth, licks at her teeth. Tastes her and her lipgloss, sugar sweet and then something more, something that's all her judging by the strangled sound he makes in the back of his throat. And it's like something inside him snaps too and his hands move together down her arms, thumbs brushing firmly and deliberately along the sides of her breasts, over her ribs and settling on the flare of her hips, fingers bunching the fabric of her skirt.

And then he's moving her, walking her backwards into the barricade of the river, the cold stone hitting hard against her ass, before he slides his hands down over her hips, to her thighs so he can lift her up onto the railing. He hesitates briefly and then puts his hands on her knees, pushes her legs apart and moves between them.

She thinks she hears him say sorry into her mouth but she ignores it and pulls him closer, wraps her arms around his neck and hooks her ankle behind his knee. The truth is she has no idea what the fuck she is doing - she's not vastly experienced and she's out of practice and there must be some part of him that knows that - but she doesn't care and he doesn't either. It doesn't matter. All that matters is his mouth on hers, the taste of his tongue, the way his hands are dropping low on her back and he's pressing into the cradle of her hips and she can feel him hard and throbbing against her.

He told her to hold that thought and she did. She held it all through the week, through Monday with Ellison and his nonsense, Wednesday at the party - speaking with Elektra, dancing with Matt - he was always there. The taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands and the fantasy of the rest of him. And she almost can't believe the reality of it. That they're here in the sunlight and the fresh air and it's the most beautiful day this year has given them yet and it seems like the world has stopped just for them.

So she kisses him. She kisses him hard and firm, rough and tough. She lets him see and hear and taste how much she wants him, how desperately she needs him and he does the same for her. He holds on, he holds on tight and she lets herself go loose in his arms, let him move her and adjust her how he wants, hands groping at her the undersides of her thighs as he tugs her closer so that she's teetering on the railing and her hair falls over them like a veil. A shield.

She can give him this. She can give him a safe place. She can let him be hers like he asked.

It isn't even a question.

None of his questions truly are.

 _(Don't you know?)_

They stay like that. They stay like that for a long time. Fierce kisses followed by gentle ones, his hands on her running down her arms, her legs, back to her waist, like he can't decide where he wants to touch her first; hers on him, acting much the same.

And when he eventually stops he does it slowly, gently, like he's winding down and he leans his forehead against hers and his hands move to her hips, massaging circles into her flesh, his breath is coming out fast and hard.

If he let her go now she'd fall. Not only a few centimetres and catch herself on a stupid ledge but really fall, maybe even into the river depending on how he moved. But he won't let go now, she knows he won't. He won't drop her. He doesn't lie to her and she trusts him with everything.

He loves her. He does. She doesn't know how and she doesn't know how he's finding room for it inside him, somewhere in between all that hate and rage and pain. Somewhere in his suffering, there's a reprieve, a respite.

 _(_ _And then I'm with you and somehow it feels okay)_

He looks up at her and wipes his saliva off her lips with his thumb, touches her jaw again, her cheekbones, leans in and presses his lips to her brow, her temple, moves down to her throat and scrapes his teeth along her skin.

And she shivers under his hands, says his name, buries her face in his shoulder.

It's just like she thought: she doesn't want to stop. She doesn't want to stop for one second.

"Take me home," she whispers into crook of his neck, hears him groan at her words. "Take me home now."

 _(No you and me. Only us.)_

He pulls away, looks her up and down and then takes her hand, kisses her knuckles gently, one by one, and leads her back to his truck.


	13. Living on your breath

******IMPORTANT MESSAGE, PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING******

 **Hi all.**

 **I have noticed since the release of _the Punisher_ that this story has gotten a little more traction here. As you will notice it was never a particularly popular story on this site and the fandom for it here seemed rather small, which led to me no longer updating it on this site. However, since I have received a number of PMs and quite a few new follows I have decided to post one more chapter here and then to let you know that it is very very unlikely I will continue updating on this site - not totally out of the question but unlikely for now. There are a number of reasons for this, which I don't want to get into here but if you want to know you are welcome to PM me. **

**However, there are at least another eight chapters of this story are available over at Archive 0f 0ur 0wn (yes one of the reasons I don't want to update here is because I need to obfuscate the name and can't post links). Over there, the story is under a different title which is "Be My Saviour and I'll Be Your Downfall" (it's part of a series as well because I don't know what I was thinking when I started it - but if you've gotten this far you'd need to start at chapter 12). My user name is TheVampireCat (PunkyNemo). Other work that I have done for this ship is also published there. Please let me know if you can't find it and I will do my best to help you.**

 **Thanks again.**

 **Also note: this chapter earns the M rating of this fic**

* * *

They don't speak on the way home and she's grateful for that. He doesn't touch her either and when she looks at him his brow is furrowed and he's biting down hard on his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and popping it out again; his knuckles white on the steering wheel and eyes intent on the road ahead. There's been no subtle and not-so-subtle glances at her legs, no unnecessary stops just so he can take a moment to see her, to kiss her. This is different, this is a kind of understated determination. She's given him a task, a job to do, and he's doing it. He's taking her home like she asked and to hell with everything else.

She finds that in many ways it feels like that day he drove her down from the mountains - the way he didn't speak and neither did she and when they wanted to it was too late. But that was important all on its own and she doesn't want to pretend that it wasn't. They both needed time, they both needed to digest everything that had happened and understand the magnitude of what he had admitted to her.

 _(Don't you know?)_

She does.

She never doubted it.

She lost him that day too. Lost him when Matt pulled her out of the truck and held her tight and she could see the grim satisfaction in Frank's eyes as he did. Sure, it wasn't the same as the night he left her on the roof and it wasn't the same as the things he said in the graveyard that cut her right to the bone. But it was a loss. She did mourn. She might not have realised it at the time but she grieved over every free coffee, every bullet on her windowsill… Every goddamn time she heard that stupid fucking song on her car radio.

He didn't believe himself to be deserving but he wanted to be - he wanted to be so much.

He breaks her heart.

He always has.

It's not like that now though. As much as she can't help but see the similarities, the differences are stark as well. Matt isn't waiting for her, at least not in the same way he was before, and Frank's not fighting her. He's not fighting himself either. He's letting himself believe that there's a chance he can have this, that they can have this. And maybe she's not too convinced of the wisdom of that - she still has her doubts, and it's not like one day in the sun changes the fundamental problems she knows they're going to need to face - but for now she's willing to let it be.

It's not raining after all. They've been promised sunshine.

For today.

So she decides she's not going to think. She's not going to speculate or pick at it. Tomorrow they can deal with the consequences as and when they present themselves.

 _If_ they present themselves. There's always a chance they won't.

A chance. Always.

It feels like they get home in no time at all, pulling up outside her building, and she barely remembers any of the scenery from the drive. She knows it was there but none of it sticks with her the way the journey to the river did: the trees, the flowers, his hands strong and scarred on the steering wheel. Bruce Springsteen singing about sunny days and pretty girls.

She's doesn't think she'll ever be able to recall any of it clearly. There was Frank and his kisses and the sunlight glinting off the water and then there was here. Whatever happened between is mostly lost.

She glances at him and immediately his eyes are on her. He has a lot of questions. A lot of questions and a lot of concerns and she knows she isn't capable of answering any of them. Not yet. Not with words.

So she doesn't. She doesn't need to either.

"Come on," she says softly and her voice cracks hard as she does. "Let's go."

He stares at her for a good few moments and then he nods, unclips his seatbelt and climbs out of the car, takes her hand and lets her lead him inside.

It's dark and cool in the foyer of her building and there's a young, pretty girl wearing enormous headphones on door duty. She doesn't even look up when they come in and Karen wonders briefly where Irene is. If she's also out and enjoying the weather, giving up her grim demeanour just for the day and taking a walk in the park. Maybe tomorrow she'll even be in a better mood for it. And wouldn't that be a thing? Irene with her imagined kalashnikov feeling refreshed and topped up with sunshine, making all their lives better.

It's a silly thought and, for a second, she finds it hilariously funny and has to stifle a laugh. And she knows it's not really about Irene. It's that she herself is a little silly. A little dizzy - the world tumbling by in bright rainbow colours that make her happy and disoriented at the same time.

But then Frank's hand closes warm and firm around her elbow and he steers her silently towards the lifts and she doesn't think about Irene and her sourness anymore.

Again, they don't speak as they walk down the corridor to her front door. He stays close though, so close that she can feel his heat through her clothes; so close she's sure he can see her legs shaking and hear her heart beating against her ribs, rattling her bones. And his hand on her elbow feels like flames on her skin.

She fumbles with her keys when she pulls them out of her purse and they slip through her fingers and onto the floor; the sound of metal hitting the cheap linoleum tiles echoing loudly off the walls and down the passage.

 _Karen Page, lover of vigilantes and disturber of the peace._

"Sorry," she whispers and starts to bend to retrieve them but his fingers tighten on her arm and he holds her still, presses a kiss into her hair before grabbing the little leather keyring himself. He moves in close then, so that his belly is almost flush with her back, and unlocks the door, holds it open for her; nods once when she glances at him.

"Go inside," he says, voice low and husky.

She does.

And it feels like she's stepped into a new world.

It's not that anything has changed from the morning. Everything, including Pickle, is still exactly where she left it and yet somehow the room has a different quality to it - something mysterious and anticipatory. Something almost expectant, like it's used the time she's been away to prepare itself, to get ready.

To the left, the couch and the coffee table, the feeble lamp, sit in the shadows, cool and dark and completely inconsequential, while the curtains billow in the breeze. To the right she can see the rays of the afternoon sun streaming in through the window, throwing dappled light onto the bed, soaking the sheets; dustmotes, gold as the flecks in Frank's eyes, dancing in the glow.

And suddenly she feels overwhelmed, overcome, overwrought - over every goddamn fucking thing.

It's not that she's scared. She couldn't be scared of him. No matter what he did or who he killed she could never actually be frightened of him - she doesn't have it in her. He loves her. He would set the world on fire if she asked him to - if he thought it would make her happy for even a moment. He would burn everything down to the ground and then come to her like a dog on his knees looking for a kind word, a pat on the head, a place to sleep that's somewhere in the same realm of existence as her.

So no, it's not him. Frank Castle might be the toughest, meanest son of a bitch she's ever met, but it's not him she's afraid of. It never was.

But maybe she's afraid of _this_. Of taking this step into the unknown. Giving all of herself to him and getting all of him - his rage, his suffering, his love - in return.

She tells herself that she _is_ strong enough - he wouldn't be here if she wasn't.

She looks at him over her shoulder and he's still standing in the doorway, hands on the frame and body not yet inside. He's watching her, eyes fixed on her face and she realises he's feeling some of that same trepidation that she is. That he knows when he crosses the threshold that he's starting something that _has_ to be finished, that _demands_ to be finished.

So she watches him, takes another deliberate step towards the bed, sees the flash in his eyes, the way his nostrils flare and his hands twitch.

He's scared too. She's not even surprised. Because _of course_ he's scared. He has to be. She probably wouldn't trust it if he claimed otherwise.

He's hiding it well though, superficially at least. She wouldn't know it if she wasn't looking for it, but it's there in his eyes, in his jaw - in the fact that he has yet to pluck up the courage to walk through her fucking door.

Maybe she was always the brave one, maybe he isn't so wrong when he says she makes him weak.

Another step, smaller this time and it's like she's daring him to follow - again like he's a stray dog and she's trying to be strong for him, not let her anxiety show and scare him off.

She glances up to see that she's standing under the place where his blood stains her wall - a rusty brown handprint, finger marks swooping down in thick smooth lines. She should have cleaned it - she knows this. Rubbed it away. And yet now it seems like it belongs here. Like she'd miss it if it were gone. It's a sign that he is real and alive and he came to her in his darkest hour.

And she is not done.

Because she's _not_.

Because she's holding on. She's holding on with two hands and she's not letting go.

Because she has everything.

Everything but everything.

She swallows, searches for something to concentrate on, something to distract her while she waits for him to catch up - gather his own courage from whatever place he does - and step the fuck inside. But there's nothing to look at, nothing to see but the swaying curtains and open windows, the bed lit up like a sacrificial altar in front of her.

And yes, maybe she should stop being so fucking dramatic and no, she doesn't give a fuck.

And then she hears the door close. It's not loud, but it slams into every last cell in her body, moving through her veins like magma and pinning her to the spot. And she's so fucking grateful because it feels like otherwise she'd just float away, out of the window and up into the spring air, never to be seen again. Not even he could catch her. Not even The Punisher could bring her back.

He's behind her now. She senses it more than anything else - the slight change in temperature, the hint of gunmetal in the air and his damp breath across the back of her neck as he sweeps her hair over one shoulder, lets it fall long and loose and messy over her breast.

He says her name, deep and guttural in the back of his throat, like it hurts him - and maybe it does. Maybe it really does hurt that he's here with her like this - that she isn't his wife, she isn't the mother of his children. Maybe it breaks his heart and cracks him wide open again, leaves him feeling lost and empty. Reeling. But then again, he's always been reeling. Has been doing it since the day his whole world died. Maybe now is the time to stop the staggering, to bring him back and even out the odds. Right that tipped scale once and for all.

She closes her eyes. Waits. Leaves him to muster up his own courage, find just a little of that arrogance, of that bravado she knows he has, and use it as best he can.

Again she can't give it to him. Again he has to do this alone.

And he does.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her skin feels like it's on fire when he touches her; big hands closing firmly over her upper arms and making her shiver even as he burns her. She draws in a sharp breath, holds it, as his thumbs brush across her shoulders and he shifts in behind her.

He's less gentle than he was earlier - not rough by any means. But his hands are solid, a little demanding even, and he's not hesitant like he was seconds ago when he was outside her door and waiting like a vampire to be invited in.

He could break her. That's simply fact - it's not even up for debate. She can feel the strength in his fingers and more than that, the knowledge - twenty different ways to kill a man before he even knows what's coming. He'd never be any the wiser. Not unless Frank wanted him to be.

And she guesses that depends on Frank's state of mind and level of rage on any given day.

Today though… today he's not punishing. Not himself or anyone else. Today she knows that's the farthest thing from his mind, can feel it as his hands slide down her arms and settle on her hips, as his mouth comes down hot and wet on her neck and his teeth scrape across her skin, leaving a rash of gooseflesh behind.

Today he doesn't want to punish, but he does want her to feel it. Today he wants her to _know_.

And she does.

She _knows_.

He does it again, slower this time, harder, and she's sure he's left marks on her; faint red lines that will swell on her pale skin, stand out like a brand so that the world knows she's his.

His.

Oh god. _His_.

It should be a scary thought. It _should_ be - this idea of being part of the Punisher, of him being part of her should terrify her. But Karen Page has never been good with "shoulds".

Mouth on the juncture of her shoulder again, tongue smooth and gentle now - soothing even - and his fingers twitch again, pulling her into him so that her back is against his torso and his hands cover her belly.

"Karen Page," his voice is gravel in her ear, his breath cooling the wet patches he's left on her skin. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, leans into him and tilts her head so he can kiss her.

And he does. Heavy messy kisses running from her shoulder to her neck, her jaw, sucking little dark marks into her, teeth nipping at her. His hands are moving too, sliding across her stomach and up to her waist, higher still over her ribs and settling under her breasts, kneading her flesh and making her gasp.

She's almost certain her legs are going to give out. Certain that if he wasn't so strong and solid behind her, if he wasn't holding her so tight, she'd slip right down, melt into the goddamn floor, stain it red like he's stained her wall and disappear forever. But he's not going to let that happen. He's not going to let her fall. Not again. He promised and she believes him. He'll keep her standing. She'll do the same for him.

Come what may.

"You alright?" Voice low, barely more than a whisper.

She nods because she doesn't trust herself to speak, doesn't trust whatever sounds are coming out of her mouth not to be some garbled nonsense that means nothing.

Or everything.

 _Everything_...

More kisses, slow and warm, across her jaw. She opens her eyes, looks down at his hands on her body, the way the fabric of her blouse bunches between his knuckles and how his thumbs circle her nipples slowly and deliberately. And she legitimately wonders how she's going to make it through the next few hours - how if a few gentle and not-so-gentle neck kisses can leave her feeling like she's about to turn inside out, how she can possibly even entertain the idea of more.

How she could even _think_ it.

And then she looks at the bed again. Their bed. Because it is _theirs_. It's still luminous - oblique sun rays hitting it just right as the curtains balloon inwards, crisp linen turning silver in the glow.

And suddenly it doesn't matter anymore. None of the nerves, none of the anxiety makes even the slightest bit of difference because she wants him in there - out of the shadows and in the light. She wants to be naked with him, chilly sheets at her back and him ... him hot as a blast furnace over her, his mouth on hers and his fingers twitching and desperate on her breasts, her legs. Her _cunt_. She wants him and he wants her and nothing else in this sorry fucking excuse for an existence makes the slightest bit of difference.

He's here. He's here with her. And that _means_ something.

Another small sound in her throat, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder and then his hand rises from her breast and cups her cheek, turns her face towards him. Even in the dim light his pupils are blown, big and black, and consuming her, eating her up from the inside out and the outside in.

She sees him then: who he was and what he's become. It's in his eyes, the set of his jaw. It bleeds out through his skin. He's the Punisher, the murderer, the torturer, but he's also Frank Castle, the husband, the lover, the gentleman who's good and kind and chivalrous. He's a finely tuned and perfect balance of both and she wants it all, every last bit of it, the good and the bad.

He swallows when she touches his neck, blinks hard when she says his name, and for a second nothing happens - the room is quiet and the curtains are suddenly still. Even the dustmotes seem suspended in time. And then he's on her, spinning her around, his mouth frantic and hard as grabs at her and backs her into the wall with enough force to make her gasp.

Hands in her hair, fingers hard on her scalp and he holds her tight and still, licking at her teeth and biting at her lips, tongue sliding along hers and all she can do - all she _wants_ to do - is cling to him and let him do this to her. Let him have her and kiss her and need her, lose himself in her.

And he does.

 _He does_.

He's hard and hot. Throbbing. And neither of them are remotely interested in hiding it, in ignoring it. It was inconsequential once. Truly it was. That night in the shower, the first night they slept together in her bed, it wasn't important. But it is now. The same way the slick pulsing between her thighs and that insistent simmer in her belly is important.

He's kissing her neck again, still wet, still messy, fingers tugging a little at her hair and teeth scraping across her collarbones. There'll be more marks, more welts before they're done. More wounds in need of soothing and she guesses most of them won't even be hers. Guesses that what they're doing and what they're going to do is one big exercise in healing when they get right down to it.

"Want you," he rasps. "Want you so much."

She might crumble. She knows it sounds cliche and cheesy but she thinks it's probably the most realistic thing that she could do right now. Just fall apart and leave him to pick up the pieces. She's not really sure there are other options at this point.

But then his hands are back on her hips, pulling a little at her skirt and then abandoning that and instead sliding underneath the hem of her top. His palm settles heavily on her ribs before moving to her back, fingernails digging into her skin and dragging downwards over her ass to her thighs. And he's kissing her again, hard scattered kisses across her face and her throat, her shoulders. He's eager and sloppy, a little unfocused, like he wants to taste and touch every part of her at once.

He's also talking again. Little nonsense words into her skin between licks and bites. She catches snatches of it, bits and pieces coming together to sound like prayers or maybe praises and suddenly it is too much. His mouth, his hands, his words. And yes, his cock throbbing against her.

She didn't think she would, but she needs a moment - just a second to get used to the idea of him like this: desperate, demanding.

Overwhelming.

He's always been overwhelming in everything else - there's no reason this should be different.

But she wants to be overwhelming too. She really really does.

So she says his name, pushes gently at him to get his attention, lifts his face to hers when she does, and kisses his lips softly, runs a hand through his hair and down to the back of his neck until he looks at her.

He's beautiful. She's thought it before and now she thinks it again. Every part of him. His rage, his suffering, his love which glitters through everything he is and turns him into something he isn't now but one day could be again.

Maybe.

She accepts that the chances are slim.

It's another bridge for another day and they've crossed so many and come so far already that their luck has to run out soon.

 _(And then I'm with you and somehow it feels okay)_

"Karen?" his voice is low and thick. He glances down to where his hands have all but moved back to her breasts and his knee has made its way between her thighs. And when he looks back at her, his eyes are worried - fearful even - like he's done something wrong and is getting ready to atone. And she knows that's ridiculous. She's seen Frank Castle dare a fucking jury to put him away. She's seen him throw himself headlong into an army to save a junkyard dog. He's taken on an entire fucking cell block of hardened criminals and lived to tell the tale. He doesn't atone and he doesn't get scared.

Except he does. And he is now. And he doesn't need to be. This is the one moment, the one time he needs to know there is absolutely nothing to fear. There's nothing to feel guilty for, nothing here that can hurt him or wound him or take the things he loves away.

So she kisses him softly as his hands loosen on her, lips gentle on his.

"I just…" she trails off. "I just need a second…"

And it sounds so lame, so trite and silly. She's a grown woman for fuck's sake and she's about to get the very thing she's been wanting for the past six months, maybe even longer. And for a second she's almost angry at herself.

But then his hand is on her face, knuckles brushing her jaw. And he doesn't even sound disappointed when he speaks.

"You take as much time as you need. We don't have to..."

But they do. They do have to and she doesn't want him to say the words. Doesn't want him to put them out there into the world, to even give it the smallest consideration.

So she puts her fingers to his lips, shakes her head.

"No, we do," she says. "We really do."

She kisses him again, fierce and fiery. and then slips out of his arms, dodges Pickle who's finally roused herself, and forces herself to walk to the bathroom. She shuts the door firmly behind her and takes a second to lean against it, pinch the bridge of her nose.

She's doesn't know what she hoped to gain from this little intermission. If her life was some ridiculous rom com she'd be frantically touching up her make-up and tousling her hair just right. But none of that is necessary.

She goes to the mirror anyway, rests her hands on the cool porcelain of the sink, closes her eyes for a second before glancing at herself.

She looks the same as she always does: thin, blonde, pretty - the fucking Bambi eyes Elektra was giving her shit about. But there's something else too. The pupils in her Bambi eyes are huge and her lips are red and swollen. And, like she thought, there are marks and welts from his teeth and mouth on her neck and shoulders.

She pulls the collar of her top to the side, traces the line of one of them and then another. It stings a little but it's not sore and she feels a little _frisson_ of pleasure coursing down her spine and settling deep and heavy between her legs.

And that's something else too. The pounding inside her, the way she knows that if she looked now her panties - already sheer and diaphanous - would be wet and translucent.

She finds she doesn't care about that. It's the point after all.

She takes a breath, looks at herself again. She feels high, giddy even… that brightly coloured world fading into something deeper and more beautiful, moving in slow motion around her. Frank's kisses and touches lighting up her nerve endings one by one. His words making her weak and strong all at the same time.

"You're about to fuck the Punisher Karen Page," she whispers to herself. "You're about to do that."

 _Do you think you're ready for that?_

Matt's voice…

 _Matt's_ voice. Like a devil on her shoulder. Or maybe, depending on your interpretation, an angel.

Fuck it.

She nods. Yes, yes she is ready.

 _Then get on that. You're wasting daylight._

Foggy.

And he's right. She is.

Glance in the mirror, hand lifted to her hair and then she drops it back to her side. She doesn't want to change a goddamn thing.

There's a man who loves her and he's waiting for her.

She goes.

xxx

He's sitting on the couch when she comes back, absently scratching Pickle's ears.

He's also hunched over, staring at the floor like he wants to kill it, punish it maybe for the misdeed of being in her apartment and bearing witness to his frantic kisses and whispered confessions. But he's there and so is she and that's all that matters.

As always his gaze gives away almost nothing. Nothing for those who don't know where to look. But she does. She spent long enough studying him while he sleeps, while he talks. While he kills. The tightness in his jaw, the way he grinds his teeth, blown pupils, hands balled into fists. So maybe he isn't as enigmatic as he likes to think. Maybe not even as much as she thinks.

He wants this, he wants her, she's sure of it now and no hard gaze or semi-unreadable expression can hide what that means.

"Frank," she says and his eyes snap to her face. Like the night at the cabin, it's more to do with hoping to be given a job - a task to please her - than anything else.

Unlike then, she has one for him now.

"You alright?" he asks again.

"Yes," and her voice is less shaky than she expected. "Yes I'm good."

He nods. Slow. But there's a gleam in his eyes. Something poised in anticipation, waiting to pounce.

She looks down, to the side, giving herself a moment to calm her nerves, to take a breath. She can still feel the imprint of his lips on her neck, his fingers digging into her waist, the way he all but engulfed her…

The way he always has.

"Frank, this is..." she trails off, looks back at him. Doesn't need to force herself to keep her gaze steady; meets him head on. And to his credit, he doesn't waver either. Not that she thought he would. Not that Frank Castle would look away. Not at a time like this at least.

"Yeah," he says and his voice makes her feel weak, her knees buckling slightly as she steps out of her heels to hide how much she's trembling.

She thinks again that it might have been easier if they'd just done it that first night. If he'd fucked her through that hard formica table and used his body to warm her cold, wet skin. If he'd taken her there and then, while she was naked and they were alone at the end of the world. If they hadn't had this thing burning between them for months now. For months since he said the words and she didn't say them back.

She _still_ hasn't said them back.

But they didn't do it then and here they are almost six months later. And he's looking at her like he's simultaneously terrified and also wants to consume her and, if she's honest - which she always is - there's no other way she'd rather have him looking at her.

She reaches for the buttons of her top, fingers shaking as she pushes the first one through its hole, taking care not to rush, not to let her nerves betray her.

This time when she looks at him he glances away, eyes dropping to the floor, to her legs and then back again. He's biting his lip and she wonders if he'll taste like blood when he kisses her again, if she'll get it in her mouth and keep that part of him inside her too.

"Don't be nervous," she whispers as she manages to undo the second button.

"I look nervous to you?" he asks, all fake bravado and half smirks.

She grins back, gets the third button free.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah you kinda do."

He snorts, face breaking into a smile as he looks away. He's amused. Genuinely. And she loves that she's done that. That even now she can make him laugh. That has, after all, always been their thing.

 _One_ of their things.

They have a lot, she realises. Probably more than they have with any other living soul.

It's too much. Too much to think about for now and she goes back to undressing, struggling a bit to work at the last buttons, fingers still trembling and suddenly he's in front of her, literally looming over her, casting a shadow across her and blocking out the sunlight.

He reaches for her, hands settling on her hips, thumbs almost touching at her belly and she stops fiddling with her blouse and looks up at him. And yes, still 50% murderous rage and 50% lost puppy, and she knows she'll get both. One way or another.

She always does. She can't divide them anymore. Wouldn't want to either.

He leans in close, so close that she can feel his breath on her again, his lips millimetres from her ear.

"Let me," he says, voice thick and hard as he tugs at her top. "Let me."

So she does. And it's easy to just give herself over to this, to let him have his way. It's a relief actually.

"Been thinkin' about this for so fuckin' long," his voice is thick as he works the final button free. "And you been thinkin' about it too…"

She has. No use denying it. True, she didn't see it going like this. She didn't see him being like this. Soft, slow, humble in a way that she would have once claimed was unlike him. And now can't imagine any other way for him to be.

He pushes at her blouse, not enough to send it off her shoulders, but enough to open it and he swears under his breath.

And she can't do anything but swallow heavily, let him look, shiver as he lays his palms flat on her sides and his thumbs trace the bumps of her ribs and eventually the undersides of her breasts.

She follows his gaze, sees her nipples standing up stiff and pink through the fabric of her bra, watches him take a deep breath, lick his lips.

For a second it's almost like he forgets himself but then he glances at her, eyes deep and dark, and slides a hand into her hair, leans in close and brushes his lips against hers.

He does taste like blood - copper and the metallic tang of gunmetal. It's what she expected. She couldn't think of another way that he would taste. These things: murder, rage, sorrow - they're all in his bones, his cells, and they come together to make him who he is. But there's something else too. Something that tastes like sunshine and goodness, something sweet and heady and she knows what it is. She doesn't need to wonder anymore.

It's love. It's devotion. It's every part of what's left of him. And she feels something in herself she can only describe as humility.

He trusts her with that. He's giving her the last part of Frank Castle he has left to give. And it murders her all over again, breaks her heart and breaks her bones and beats her to the ground where it leaves her in pieces. Shattered. Ruined. She doesn't miss the irony - this man who kills and destroys with his hands and his rage now ravaging her with his goodness, his dog-like loyalty.

She wants him to know that she gets it. That she understands and that she's honoured.

So she lifts her hands to his face, palms flat on his cheeks and pulls back to look at him. As always she struggles to find the words to describe him. He's too many things in one man, too many contradictions.

He's good, he's bad. He's fucked up. He's wonderful. He's the most beautiful dream and also the most terrifying nightmare.

And he's hers. He's all hers.

She drags him close, scattering kisses on his cheeks and jaw, hands coming to rest on his biceps, digging into him like little claws. She can feel the power in him, the strength and brutality that barely hides just under the surface of his skin. He vibrates with it and she swears she almost feels it moving through his veins. Again she thinks that he could break her, split her clean in half if he wanted to. And that doesn't frighten her - if anything it makes her tremble even more, sends another wave of heat spinning down her spine to nestle between her legs.

And then he's gripping the edges of her top, pushing it off her like it's in the way and has no right to be, and winding his arms tight around her, pulling her close.

"Want you so much," he says again into her hair.

Her knees don't buckle this time - she's not sure how, but they don't. And then she's reaching for the buttons on his shirt while he's tugging at the tie on her skirt, his fingers struggling with the small knots and there's a second she thinks he'll break it, that the fabric will just tear in his hands. But he doesn't and she's not even a little embarrassed as the skirt pools around her feet, nor when his hand slips down her back to squeeze her ass and his mouth finds hers again.

He doesn't linger though. He's hard and rough, teeth knocking hers before he moves to bury his face in her throat, nuzzle her jaw and press his tongue, hot and wet, into the space between her clavicles.

"I wanna look at you," he says into her skin. "Please."

Begging.

And that sends a wave of something hot and sharp through her, makes her shudder so that she has to hold onto his arms or risk falling to the floor there in front of him. She doesn't think he'd mind if she did though. He's probably not that far from falling himself.

And suddenly she feels like she's back in that cabin, watching his head, her nipples hard and her panties wet and a bruise so big it covers her whole side. And she wants him to turn around. She wants him to see her with her bruises and her scrapes. She wants him to take her and fuck her through that table and his hands wouldn't hurt her because they can't. And now… now he's asking for it. He's asking her to let him do what she wanted him to do all those months ago and she almost can't believe that they've got here.

She's not scared anymore. She can't be. Not with him. This is what she wants. This is what he wants.

So she straightens and takes a step back and out of his arms, into the sunlight so that it makes dappled patterns on her skin, turns her hair white gold and her eyes to the colour of ice.

She's not going to play coy anymore.

So she stands and she watches as his eyes eat her up, as his gaze drops from her face to her neck, her breasts and hard nipples that rub almost painfully against the the thin fabric of her bra. And then to her belly, the flare of her hips, and finally to her panties. They're wet and transparent, but for entirely different reasons from the last time she stood mostly naked in the same space as him. No one's been dousing her in cold water, no one's been dragging her through the snow.

There's him. There's only him and his hands and his mouth and how he's making her feel.

 _(Kinda woman that makes a man weak)_

But he's the kind of man who makes a woman strong.

His gaze lingers on the juncture of her thighs. She knew it would - her underwear hides little and, more than that, it's clinging to her, outlining her lips, her creases, the small bump of her clit.

And then she reaches behind herself for the catch of her bra. And somewhere inside her head a voice that sounds surprisingly like Matt's is screaming _What are you doing Karen Page? What the fuck are you doing? This isn't you. This isn't the nervous, awkward woman who cries over tough days at work and crumbles when someone raises their voice to her. This. Isn't. You._

But it is.

Oh god it is. This _is_ her and the voice is a lie. This is Karen Page and she's undressing in front of the Punisher and she's not scared at all.

She thinks he says her name but she can't be sure. The blood is pounding in her head, scorching through her veins and all she can think of is how stiff and clumsy her fingers feel and how it's ridiculous that now, for the first time since she was 13, she's going to end up struggling with a bra. But somehow that works out too and she doesn't struggle, the hooks come apart easily and the satin loosens around her.

She glances at him, more to make sure he's watching than anything else, but all the same she sees a tiny nod and the flash in his eyes.

 _Yes_.

That voice in her head crying _No_.

She ignores it. It's an annoyance, nothing more than an angry remnant of who she once was. It has no place here.

Many things have no place here.

And then her bra is off, sliding down her arms. She watches it fall and it seems to take a while to get to the floor and join the rest of her clothes, seems almost to twist in on itself as it does. Or maybe that's just her.

She thinks it's just her.

Most things are.

And then she raises her head to look at him again, meets his black eyes dead on, doesn't even bother to wait or build up the moment. It's come to this now, it was always going to and she's not going to pretend it wasn't. She cocks her head, gives him a small smile and lets him look, lets him _gaze_ , lets him do any fucking thing he wants because now - right now - she's his. She's his to look at, his to touch, his to kiss.

His to _fuck_.

All his. All in. No turning back. Ever.

And oddly, for all his half lewd staring and barely disguised lust from before - from the roof and the morning after the graveyard, hours ago at the river - the way his gaze rakes over her doesn't feel lascivious. It doesn't feel crude. It feels almost the opposite. There's a kind of purity to it.

Reverence.

Her brain rejects the word at first, tells her she's being overindulgent, maybe even a little conceited but she looks at his face again, the longing in his eyes, the way he's biting down so hard on his lip she knows he's broken the skin, and she knows she's right. She knows it's true. It _is_ reverence. It can't be anything else.

She's not sure how long they stand there - her almost naked in the sunlight, him fully clothed in the shadow. Him watching her and her watching him do it. She's not sure, she probably never will be, but it does seem to take a long time before he's willing to meet her eyes again, before he can tear his gaze from her flesh. And when he does his dark look turns her inside out and upside down, makes her want to fall to her knees.

Except she doesn't have to because somehow he is. Somehow he's back in her space and his hands are warm and rough on her, lips planting kisses down her throat, between her breasts, across her ribs and stomach and then he's settling himself onto floor in front of her, his mouth inches away from her hips, her thighs.

Her cunt.

This doesn't scare her either.

She touches his hair again, runs her fingers through it. It's thick and soft and she smiles to herself when she thinks about how it grows out curly and full. How it probably annoys him.

And then she doesn't think about it anymore because he's resting his forehead on her belly, wrapping his hands around the back of her knees and whispering her name into her skin.

 _Karen_.

He's quiet when he says it, quiet like he's nervous to even put it into the world but even so it's like the sound of his voice fills the whole room and she can't hear anything else. Not the cars outside, not the people down the hall or the strange city buzz that you can ignore until you can't. She can't even hear her own breathing or his, the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. There's only his voice and only her name and for a moment she wonders if that might be the only sound in the whole world, if the very universe rings with it.

 _Karen_.

It sounds like gospel, like praise, adoration.

It also sounds like begging.

It's _always_ sounded like begging.

Kisses on her belly. Soft. Slow. Gentle scraping of his stubble across her skin. His mouth hot and wet and she can see the shining lines of his saliva glistening in the light.

Her name again, louder this time. More kisses. His hands firm around her legs like he knows she'll fall if he lets her go, and then his lips graze her panties, a flash of scorching heat on skin that's already burning.

He must be able to smell her. Ripe. Heady. She knows this because she can smell herself: musk mingled with sunshine, wet heat in the first hint of the evening chill. He must also know how much she wants him, must know that her thighs are slick with it, that she can't hide it any more than he can hide the hard bulge behind the zipper of his jeans. He _must_ know.

Another kiss through the sheer teal fabric; teeth nipping at it and deliberately catching the smooth skin beneath, making her hiss and groan. It's not a sound she's ever made before. It's sharp and hard and not quite human - a cat bearing its fangs, a snake ready to strike. And she wonders how many other animal sounds they're going to pull out of each other today, how they're ever going to find a way back to using words.

He does it again, slower this time, and she can't help it - she tries to roll her hips towards him but his hands on her are firm and solid and he holds her in place, glances up at her very briefly and shakes his head.

 _No. Not yet._

She curses under her breath - she's not sure what she says, only that it's crude and blasphemous, and she can feel him grin into her skin. But she doesn't try to move again.

More kisses through her underwear. Teasing. Light. Gentle nipping, never venturing too low or too close. And, seemingly, when he's sure she's got the message to stay still, he slides his hand up her legs, traces the muscle and the bones, the curve of her ass and the smooth space between her thighs.

She closes her eyes, head tipping back and the grip on his hair loosening. And he stays where he is. On his knees. Kissing her, running his tongue across her belly, tasting her and touching her, teeth scraping over her hip bones, leaving the same faint red welts there as he has on her neck and shoulders; fingers digging into her as she sighs and moans and says his name.

He's patient she realises, patient and slow and maybe a little bit scared, even if she isn't. Even if her fear has slowly but surely ebbed out of her and evaporated in the sunlight. But then again she doesn't have years of guilt and loss and rage to work through. She's got baggage sure, but she doesn't have his.

So she lets wave after wave of gooseflesh cover her skin, lets her legs tremble and trusts him to keep her standing. And he does. He always does. He won't let her fall. Not ever. And his hands are solid and firm, strong as he moves his mouth over her.

When she opens her eyes again, the room looks different, darker now as the afternoon light fades. The dustmotes are still shining like tiny flames though, and the bed is still golden and glittering - but she hardly notices any of it. The only thing she can see - the only thing that matters - is Frank Castle - the big bad Punisher - crouched on the floor between her legs.

And it might well be the single most erotic experience she's ever had in her life but she doesn't want him there anymore. She wants him up and with her, his arms around her and his mouth rough on hers.

So she reaches out, touches his jaw, tilts his head up to look at her, and his hands slide up to rest on her hips.

And then he's looking at her, eyes dark and hooded, completely black, the flecks of gold engulfed by his blown pupils.

She doesn't have to wonder what it is anymore.

It's not praise. It's not adoration either.

It's what she thought. It's reverence.

She wasn't wrong.

She's brought Frank Castle to his knees.

Her.

Karen Page.

 _She_ did that.

She dares to think that maybe she's given him his faith back too. Because he's done that for her.

 _(Don't you know?)_

Fingers through his hair again.

"I love you," he says and even though he's said variations of it before it feels different this time. It's not coming from a place of rage or loss; emotions that are running high and overflowing and forcing words out of his mouth. It feels careful and considered, nothing but truth. And that in itself makes it real and raw. Visceral.

 _(I did some thinking while I was in Jersey. About you and me. This thing between us.)_

Lump in the back of her throat and suddenly she can't speak, words being cut off even as they form on her lips.

She loves him too. She's never said it but she does. So much. So very very much.

Tears prick in her eyes and she wants to blink them away but doing that feels wrong somehow. Like lying or hiding and she doesn't want to do either. Not to him.

"Get off your knees Frank," she whispers. "You don't belong there."

A beat. Silence again. No cars, no voices. No city buzz. And then he's surging, standing and picking her up in one fluid movement, hands underneath her ass, mouth on hers. And he's fast, so fast she's hardly able to get her legs around his waist before he's manoeuvring them to the bed, landing heavily on top of her as her back hits the pillows and his lips crush hers.

"Goddamn you Karen Page," he breathes, sliding a hand into her hair, and tilting her face to his. He bites at her bottom lip and she can still taste blood when his tongue slips into her mouth and he licks at her teeth.

It's him. It's him broken down, being pulled apart into pieces. She did it once before in front of the graves of the people he loved most in the world. She did it then and afterwards she helped him rebuild. She can do it here too. She can do it again.

He kisses her roughly, hand fisting in her hair, sending a cascade of sparks down her spine.

It's the Punisher. This is how the Punisher loves. This is his version of gentleness.

And it hurts. Oh god it hurts so much.

But she's strong. She's strong enough to love him back.

She arches up to him, pushing at him with her whole body, mouth hard on his and hands grasping at the edge of his shirt, dragging it up his back so she can touch his skin; leave some of her own marks on him, little red welts that match hers and don't hurt because she could never hurt him.

He's grabbing at her too, hands running up her thighs, hiking them over his ass and then pressing himself into her, rocking slightly so she can feel him pulsing and hard through the rough fabric of his jeans.

She swears again - this time she's pretty sure she just says _fuck_ and he smiles into her mouth, kisses her wet and messy and a little bit desperate before wrenching himself backwards so that he's kneeling between her splayed legs. She tries to follow him, but he shakes his head, pushes her back down with a firm hand between her breasts before hooking his fingers into her panties and pulling them off, discarding them on the floor with as much care as he has everything else she was wearing.

His eyes flicker from her face, to her breasts, her stomach and then finally down to where he's wedged between her thighs. She's aware of the imbalance here and yet she's not embarrassed, not even slightly. Maybe once she would have been, maybe she would have worried about her long coltish legs, the faint beauty marks speckling her belly, whether her breasts were too big or small... But not now. She feels safe. He'll take care of her. He won't hurt her.

He'll _stay_. And she will too.

He reaches out with both hands, fingers stuttering centimetres from her skin, eyes locking on hers for a moment before he snorts - more at himself than anything else - and looks to the side, down at the patterned light on the sheets.

 _The Punisher, shy in front of a girl._

It's not unusual anymore, she's seen this side of him often enough and there's still something so incongruous about it, something so perfectly right and also perfectly wrong it only makes her love him more. Makes her want to uncover all these little secrets, all his hidden facets.

And then he's back with her, leaning forward briefly to kiss her again, fingers trailing across her collarbones, down over her breasts; her nipples pebbling hard and pink as he does. And then down further over her ribs, her belly, one hand settling on her hip and the other sliding over her thigh and dropping low to press at the smooth, wet cleft between her legs.

He groans as he touches her and her skin prickles, little ripples washing through her, making her burn and shiver all at the same time. It's not that it's too much but at the same time it is. It's much too much. It's him and his hands and his mouth. It's him and he's in her bed.

It's all she's ever wanted.

And it's overwhelming. _He's_ overwhelming.

It almost feels involuntary as she shifts upwards to the headboard to give him more access to her - space he quickly uses to move his hand in a long sweeping stroke from her clit to her cunt and back again. And when she looks down she sees her wetness shining on his fingers, glinting and glossy in the dying sun. He sees it too and his eyes flicker to her and he looks at her like he's about to eat her alive. And if he was, she doesn't think she'd have the wherewithal to object.

She has no idea how she's going to get through this. None. And worse… she doesn't care.

He can do what he wants to her - _whatever_ he wants - and if he leaves her as nothing more than a wreck of marked skin and weakened bones by the end of this, unable to speak or move or think - and she admits this is a serious possibility - she'll accept it.

And then she doesn't think anymore because his fingers are sliding inside her, moving in long, slick strokes between her legs, and making her gasp and shudder into his hand.

This is so much better than when she did it, so much more careful and considered, precise and attentive in a way she isn't and couldn't be. And even though there's a desperation to this, a need to join, to mate , he's finding the time to explore her, to open her folds with his thumb, to rub her wet flesh and push against that spot deep inside which makes her whimper and writhe under him.

He's a quick study too - not that she ever doubted it. He's too fucking smart and analytical for his own good and it's not long before his hand is moving in an excruciating rhythm that's hitting her in all right places, making her fight to lift her hips off the bed while he holds her firmly in place.

She bares her teeth at him, swears low and filthy under her breath, as she feels herself trickling hot and wet into his palm. And for all the world he smiles, one of those genuine heartfelt smiles he's always reserved for her. And then he's leaning forward, moving his hand off her hip to plant it in the pillow next to her head so that his lips are inches from hers. And he's whispering. Nonsense words that don't feel like nonsense at all. She catches little pieces of it, phrases. She's beautiful. She's amazing. She's perfect. He loves her. He wants her. She wants him too. She wants him so much. He can feel how much. He knows. He _knows_. And she does too. She does. She does.

She _does_.

It doesn't take long. It doesn't take long at all. One second he's working his hand between her legs, thumb rubbing ever tightening circles into her clit, winding her up like a spring and holding her there for a brief and agonising moment... And the next he's letting her go, pushing hard into her and rubbing her wet flesh in harsh, rough strokes as she uncoils beneath him; as a white hot wave slams into her with such force that she feels herself spasming around his fingers, clenching so hard that for a second he's absolutely still inside her before he carries on fucking her through it with forceful thrusts.

And he's hard and rough and practiced in exactly the way she thought he would be - brutal and relentless and demanding with his hand. The Punisher - _her_ Punisher - breaking her and changing her and then, just when she thinks there's nothing left, pulling her back together to start it all over again.

But then he lowers his mouth to hers and he kisses her so softly she almost can't believe he's the same man. He's sweet and he lingers exquisitely over her lips, tasting her and learning her and when it's too much and she pushes at his hand, he pulls away, hushing her quietly and then finally shifting out from between her legs to run his damp fingers down to her cheek.

"Been wanting to do that for such a long time," he says. "Make you do that…"

She whimpers at his words because she's been wanting it too. She wants to tell him what she did the night he left - how she put her fingers inside herself and imagined it was him - so she does. It's not even hard to find the words, because she's not trying to do anything other than let him know. The point isn't seduction - they're a bit beyond that now - the point is him understanding how much she wanted him and missed him, how much she needs him. And it's not even a little bit embarrassing but he makes a sound like she's punched him in the guts and pulled his heart out through his mouth.

And then he's kissing her again. Not her lips but her jaw and her cheeks, her throat and shoulders. Kissing her like he can't stand to just listen to her speak and needs to give himself something else to focus on. And when she finishes she has to put her hands on his cheeks and make him look at her again.

The Punisher - shy in front of a girl.

But she's looking at something else now, eyes drifting from his to his hard jaw, his lips, down to his shirt and chest where so far she's managed to get two buttons open before abandoning herself to him.

She glances down at herself too - her pale breasts, her splayed legs, him fully clothed between them. There's something about it that thrills her. She can't deny it. She's completely naked and vulnerable and he's completely not.

Except he is.

And she's never felt safer.

His mouth covers her nipple, sucking gently, swirling his tongue over her before moving lower to catch the skin on the underside of her breast between his teeth.

"Frank," she says softly and he lifts his head to look at her, eyes dark and blown and boring into her skull.

She looks pointedly at his shirt, his jeans.

"Come on Frank."

She gets another shy smile as he pushes himself back up to his knees and she wants to laugh. Here she is, naked as the day she was born, breasts still heaving from her climax and the flesh between her legs swollen and drenched with her juices, and somehow he still has that old-fashioned bashfulness; an endearing shyness that she's seen fighting with that other half of him, the slightly lewd side that betrays him every now and then.

But again, he's been living in her apartment for almost two weeks now and he's spent most of that time in various states of undress, sometimes to the point that he was so inadvertently distracting she wanted to ask him to put something on. She never did though.

She guesses there was a reason for that.

"Come on," she says again pushing herself up on her elbows, taking his hand and pulling his fingers to her mouth so she can taste herself. "I wanna look at you too."

And then he's not shy anymore and he's grabbing at the neck of his shirt with one hand, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor before lowering himself back down on her. His skin is smooth and feverish on hers, warm and heavy and, as she wraps her arms around him, mouth on his neck, she wonders how she managed to sleep by his side for all those nights. How she didn't jump him right then and there when they were both desperate and needy and he was in her bed.

He wasn't ready, she tells herself. He really wasn't. Not then. Not when all this started. Not at the cabin, not on the roof and not here in her bed while he tried to scrape the bits of himself together that he'd managed to salvage from the graveyard.

He wasn't ready.

He is now.

Lips on her breasts again.

 _Oh god he is now._

He's pressing himself against her, pressing hard and it doesn't take much to know she's soaking his jeans; that if he moved away now she'd be able to see a dark mark of herself seeping into his crotch. He doesn't seem to care though, rolling his hips slow and deliberate and wedging himself firmly up into the cradle of her hips, into that space she's made for him.

"Love you," he says between kisses and licks. "Love you so fucking much."

And she's overwhelmed again. Completely and utterly. Every single sense she has is filled with him, suffocated with him. And briefly she wonders how much of a problem this is going to be; how - for all the wonderful things he is - she going to deal with everything else he brings to the table.

But then he's nudging her lips open with his, and his hands are impatient on her as he lifts her legs around his waist. And she loses herself to him again; to his hands and his mouth, his smell and his taste, the hard throbbing pressure of him between her thighs.

She arches into it, rolling up to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other in his hair.

He hisses, sucking the breath out of her mouth and into his, shuddering hard and suddenly she doesn't want to wait anymore. She wants him naked and vulnerable. She wants his skin on hers, no more rough denim and broken promises between them. No more hiding. She wants to touch him and taste him and feel him move inside her.

So she pushes at him. There's no way she could flip him over. He's far too strong for that and even if he wasn't she could never get the drop on him long enough. So she's left twisting beneath him, shifting her hips sideways and rocking upwards.

For a second he ignores her and she thinks he'll keep her pinned under him. But then all at once he's moving with her, rolling them over so that he's on his back and dragging her up so that she's straddling him and her hair is falling forward into his face.

And he doesn't care, pulling her close again to kiss her hard and deep and wet, one hand coming to rest heavily between her shoulder blades, the other sliding down to palm her ass.

She shivers a little but when he pulls away to ask if she's cold she shakes her head. She's not. Not at all. Even in the dying sunlight and the onset of the evening chill, she's not remotely cold.

And she doesn't want to do this under the blankets either. It seems wrong somehow to cover up. She wants him to see her, wants to show him she's not afraid of this or of him. She wants to give him that.

And, in return, she wants the same from him too.

She _demands_ it.

So she takes a few seconds to kiss him, to run her fingers along his lips, nuzzle his neck and whisper in his ear that she wants him. She wants him so much. More than she's ever wanted anyone and that's not just pillow talk because dear god they don't lie. And definitely not about this.

And then she sits back, thighs clamped over his hips and gives herself a moment to look at him.

He's mostly in shadow now, what little sun is left of the day clinging rather to her skin than his. It leaves him looking smooth and dark beneath her, an unintended but natural chiaroscuro that will soon fade with the light so she can join him. A tableau they'll make once and probably not again. no matter how many times they do this.

It's beautiful.

He's beautiful.

They can be beautiful together.

It's time.

It really is.

He knows it too.

She touches his cheek and he turns his head to kiss her palm, before threading his fingers through hers, scraping his teeth over the nexus of veins at her wrist.

And then he nods at her and it's like the final ray of sunlight meant for the day settles on her skin, covering her and then pushing into her blood, travelling like fire through her until it all nests in the small space where his lips are touching her.

She says his name, low and strangled, and his hand tightens, teeth sharp and hard but not yet biting, not hurting even though she knows he never could.

And then the moment ends and she's undoing his belt buckle, reaching for the button and the zipper of his jeans and he doesn't bat her away this time. He's throbbing under her hands as he lifts his hips to help her undress him. And she does notice the wet stain of herself on his crotch. She doesn't think much of it though because he's kicking his boots off and the rest of his clothes are following and, before she's even had a chance to look at him, he's sitting up to meet her, pulling her tight into his lap so her cunt is wedged hard against his cock.

Both hands in her hair now and he's kissing her again. He's reckless and rough but she is too and then she's reaching between them, wrapping her fingers around him and lifting herself up on her knees, one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, the other lining him up.

And she can barely believe she's doing this, barely believe her own brazenness and impatience.

 _You're Karen Page. You're not meant to be like this._

Except she is. She really fucking is.

He breaks away from her mouth to choke out something that sounds like a question. Is she sure? Is she okay? Is _this_ okay? Like _this_? And _yes yes yes_ to all of those questions. The answer is always _yes_.

Always.

Forever.

Gasping: _Don't you know?_

He nods. _I know._

The last of the sunlight disappears as she lowers herself onto him, as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses her lips to his. It seems fitting to her that when they've finally joined they've done it in the half-light, the shadows, a liminal space where they can hide from the world but not from each other.

And she takes a moment to feel that, to close her eyes and kiss him soft and slow; get used to the unfamiliar sensation of him stretching her, the throbbing ache of him between her thighs.

He needs it too. He's trembling, gasping into her mouth, his hands leaving her hair and pushing down hard into her hips - not to move her but rather to keep her still.

And it's okay because for now she has no desire to do anything else. She just wants to hold him and press her face into his throat, concentrate on all the places he's touching her, the way his chest heaves against hers and his breath cools on her skin; the little words he's whispering into her ear and how she doesn't need to hear them to know their quality, their gravity.

It's more than she ever thought it could be, more than she ever imagined. No half-fantasised quick rutting on a formica table in a cold cabin could ever come close to what this is, how this feels.

She says his name - low, deep - and he groans and drags her into him, scattering kisses on her throat and shoulders. His hands move from her hips to her ass and then up her back, fingertips trailing along her arms so that her skin prickles, and then he cups her breasts, thumbing hard and firm over her nipples and making her suck in a breath, gasp so loud the sound fills the room.

He does it again, a little kinder this time, almost teasing, his teeth sharp against her throat.

"Karen Page."

Strangled words. Words that don't even sound like her name and yet somehow are. "Make a man weak…"

And that's when she decides to move.

Gradual roll of her hips, slight arch of her back just to give him more room to touch her. He instantly drops a hand back to her waist, tightens his grip on her and she knows he's trying to keep her still again, feels it with the not-so-gentle warning bite he presses into her skin.

But she's not inclined to listen to him so easily anymore, not inclined to view this burgeoning roughness as a bad thing - it was always a feature rather than a bug anyway - and she shifts again, grinds her hips into his, waits for him to catch up.

He does. He's always been too damn fast for his own good.

Growling. Something animal and alien, something she'd expect from a starved, half-feral dog, and when she looks at him his eyes shine like polished onyx in the shadows, teeth bared and glinting. She stares back. He should know this by now - that she won't flinch, she won't look away, he doesn't get to control that no matter how much wildness she sees in him, no matter how much rage or suffering or hurt.

She's Karen Page and he's her Punisher.

Hers. Only hers.

He makes the sound again, deep and guttural and she swears she can feel it starting in his belly and working its way slowly up his trachea, vibrating against her skin, threatening to burst out of his mouth if it doesn't claw its way out of his chest before it gets there. And when it does…

 _Oh god, when it does…_

But she can control this too. She _can_.

She has a beast in her bed and she's not remotely afraid.

She waits.

She _waits_.

And then slowly - ever so slowly - without breaking eye contact until the very last second when she bears down heavily on his cock, she arches her neck, exposes her throat to him.

A beat. A fraction of a millisecond.

And then he's surging, his whole body rolling forward into hers, mouth fusing to her skin, and arms locking around her middle so hard that for a second she can't breathe. She's crashing into him too, manoeuvring herself so that she can press down on him in slow smooth strokes, clenching hard so that her cunt can hold him as tight as he's holding her, so she can feel his throbbing inside, his trembling outside.

She rises up on her knees, bears down again, hears him whisper _Jesus Christ_ into her breast.

 _Jesus Christ Karen. Jesus Christ._

She does it again, hand twisting into his hair to tilt his head back so she can kiss him, gentle and deep but also firm and forceful. And his fingers flutter on her skin, moving over her almost randomly like he doesn't know where to touch her first.

Another roll of her hips and even as she's kissing him she hears that strangled growl bubbling up in his chest again.

He breaks away to let it out, couples it with some more low swearing, her name.

Blasphemy.

Praise.

 _Reverence._

She's overwhelming him, she realises. It's what she wanted for so long, what she _needed_ , what she thought about and never quite figured how she was going to make it real. Never thought she could bring out his wildness like this and then take it, make it her own and give it back to him.

But she is.

 _Oh god she is._

And that's when he wraps his arm around her waist, lifts her and shifts on the covers so that he's on his knees and her legs are still draped over his.

His movements are smooth, almost effortless, but for a second she loses her rhythm, clings to his shoulders so she doesn't pitch backwards onto the bed.

Except she wouldn't. He wouldn't let her because he'll never let her fall. Not again.

And then he's forcing a hand between them, fingers sliding downwards between her smooth lips, resting briefly on the hard and swollen nub of her clit and then stroking firm and slow, in synch with his thrusts inside her.

"Frank… I…"

She has no idea how she planned on finishing the sentence. No idea what words she was going to use. She knows she wants to tell him she can't. Not again. Not so soon after the last time. That she's still riding the high he brought her earlier and there's no need. But he just gazes at her, mouth slightly open, but jaw firm and tight and the same hard determination in his eyes she's seen when he makes promises; when he confesses his secrets to her.

"For me Karen," he says. "For me."

For him.

She can never say no to him anyway.

His other hand rises from her back and rests on her throat for an infinitesimally small moment, just long enough really for her to register that it's deliberate that it's there. And then he slides it upwards to cup the back of her head, fingers hard on her scalp as pulls her to kiss him.

They rise together, his body angling itself upwards so that when she comes down, it feels like he crashes into every part of her. Her mouth, her cunt. Her soul. He does it again, edging her up and then bringing them back down hard. And the simmer in her belly turns to something thick and molten, that magma collecting in her core again and filling her up, making it hard to talk and hard to breathe. Choking her.

The curtains billow inwards once more, brief flash from outside - lightning, she registers with some surprise - and then the shadows reclaim them almost instantly. And she grits his name out as his fingers twist on her wet flesh and his whole body rolls under her.

He's saying her name too, and she can feel him shuddering, see a brief hint of fear - panic even - in his eyes and she finds it within herself, within this red fog and the feel of him inside her, to touch his face, to reassure him as best she can.

"For me now Frank," she says. "For me as well."

He breaks. She does too. It's not fast. Not at first. A slow yet relentless build up of that heat, pulling itself together in her belly, hardening into something heavy and dense and brittle and holding itself there; spinning faster and faster, small bits of it eroding in tickling sparks before shattering outwards, ripping down her spine in a glittering rush of heat.

They both cry out and she's bending like a bow in his arms, head thrown back, breasts thrust forward. He moves with her, somehow keeping her steady and secure and simultaneously letting her curve and spasm as her climax ebbs through her. And then he's leaning into her, lips at her breast, fingers flexing hard into her flesh and she feels him pulsing inside her, hears his groan filling the room and overwhelming them both as he rolls his hips and his pelvis wrenches against her. Once. Twice. And then a half sob, half growl out of his mouth as he pumps all his rage and all his sorrow and whatever love he has left into her.

His hands are everywhere: her shoulders, her neck, her back, her breasts, pulling at her and clawing at her like he's trying to hold on but can't. And he doesn't need to. He doesn't because she's got him.

He's hers and she's not going to let him go.

She winds her arms around his neck, pulls him as close as she can, hips still moving deliberately on his until she feels his own thrusts between her legs slow and weaken.

"Stay with me," she whispers. "Stay. It'll be alright."

 _(You have everything)_

 _(Hold on. Use two hands and never let go)_

 _(No you or me, only us)_

 _Only us._

Forever.

 _Forever._

In time he stops trembling and looks up at her long enough to brush his lips on hers, run a hand down her cheek and over her mouth, across her jaw, before resting his head back against her breasts.

"I love you," he whispers into her skin.

She leans forward, kisses his head.

"I know."

He doesn't ask for more and it seems wrong to give it now even if she can't say why. So they stay like that, breathing hard, hands running gently over each other. Quiet and soft. Still. Even the curtains have stopped swaying.

Eventually he shifts, moving them both so that he can lower her down onto the pillows, slipping out of her as he does and she can feel his orgasm cooling slick and chilly on her thighs. She feels weightless and languid, boneless even. Sated.

Looming over her in the half-light, he kisses her hair, her forehead, her cheeks. He's still overwhelmed. She can see it in his eyes - that hint of panic hasn't fully disappeared.

And then he lies next to her, pulling her close and burying his face in her hair as she watches the shadows dance on the wall and listens to the sound of city bleed back into the world.

And for the moment she doesn't wonder or worry about anything. There's him and there's her and there's the glow they made together. Nothing else matters. Nothing ever could.

 _No you and me. Only us._

Only us.

And then he kisses the back of her neck, hand sliding down over her belly to rest between her legs.

Only us.

Forever.

* * *

 ******PLEASE READ THE NOTE AT THE BEGINNING OF THIS CHAPTER FOR AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE REGARDING THE UPDATES OF THIS FIC*****


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